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Since I was young, I have had an affinity for radio. My favorite was the local morning-drive-time show “The Freakshow” with Mick and Allen on Rock99. I would listen every morning on my Salt Lake Tribune paper route. I was homeschooled at the time and I would call into the show periodically. I became known as “the home school kid” because the hosts would always ask why I wasn’t in school when I called. I entered a Mad Monday contest and won tickets for a WWF (at the time) wrestling event. Another time I engineered a raise for my aunt when I nominated her boss for “freak of the week” on a Friday edition. I once called Dennis Rodman “a fucking loser” on air and was banned until they forgot. I once called to ask if I could just talk with a pro-wrestler guest. Mick then said I was going to do entire interview. Jeff Hardy was the guest, who at the time was my favorite wrestler. The night before, he made out with Trish Stratus. The hottest woman on the planet at the time, I thought. Of course I asked him how that was. The interview ended with Mick and Allen giving me ringside seats to “Smackdown!” My uncle and I went, and he was just as excited as I was. We saw some of the most notable wrestlers at the time: The Rock, The Hardy Boyz, Rob Van Dam, and Kane.

In high school, I would listen to KBER101 in the evening. Darby was the evening host and also the Sunday show “Kaos” which played more underground and heavy metal music for three hours every week. I would listen for the contests and I started to notice that they were announced at the same commercial breaks every night. 6:50 and 8:50 (I think). Darby would had a trivia game in the earlier segment and later in the evening was “the slobberknocker.” Two listeners would choose a tune and the listening audience would then vote on which song was the better choice. I figured out that the key to getting through was to call while he was making the announcement for the contests. I programmed 4, 5 and 670 - K-B-E-R to speed dial. I won three days in the same week before Darby said to me: “I need to cut you off for awhile, man. Technically you can only win once a month.” I didn’t complain and thanked him. I started listening to the afternoon show with Kelly Hammer more and figured out when to time my call for his trivia game also. Hammer’s game was set up for three contestants. The first person to say their name or make the noise of an assigned animal had the opportunity to answer a question. If the contestant answered incorrectly they were disqualified. I won the next week on Kelly’s show and began to alternate between the afternoon and evening shifts each week to stagger my winnings. It came to the point where an annoyed Kelly Hammer told a competing contestant what the correct answer for the winning question was. I answered the first two questions correctly; Don King and Evander Holyfield were the correct answers as they related to Mike Tyson. Earlier that day, Tyson bit Lennox Lewis’s leg, and I was unaware.

I had become a regular part of Darby’s weeknight shows. I would call to make requests, he would joke around with me and he often aired the funnier moments. He gave me a nickname, “The Blake.” I won so much that other listeners began to vote against my song choices for “the slobberknocker” because it was “The Blake” who chose it. One week I called weekend show with Kevin Eason and Helmut Von Schmidt. I quickly developed a rapport with them. They tried to get me an internship with the station, I was too young. They started a gameshow, hosted by your’s truly. It was called simply, “Beat The Blake for Prizes.” I phoned the station from home and listeners would try to best me in a trivia contest. If they answered first correctly, they won the prize. And if I answered correctly, I won. I lost one time that I can recall when I couldn’t give Arizona Diamondback Pitcher Randy Johnson’s nickname, “The Big Unit.” The DJs of KBER suffered my awkward and occasionally witty company. I did not have much of a social life until my senior year in high school.

I won CD’s and concert tickets. Some of the best memories I have were because of the prizes I had won. I was able to see Tool, Meshuggah, A Perfect Circle, Opeth, In Flames, Killswitch Engage, Lamb of God, Machine Head, amongst others. I was just big, dumb and clumsy enough to have fun in the mosh-pits. I caught drumsticks and guitar picks from some of my creative heroes. Scott Ian from Anthrax gave me his guitar pick after playing an acoustic set at a local music store. Today, music is a huge part of my life, it’s uncommon to see me without earbuds. In high school, music was my entire life. Instead of my textbooks I would carry Revolver and Hit Parade Magazines (I have a GED, not a diploma).

My parents were less than enthused about my taste in music. When I was about 13 my dad caught me with a copy of “5”by Lenny Kravitz. He started looking through the booklet and in the album artwork was a photo of Lenny sitting in the back of a car with a smoke in his mouth. In a panic he called my mother and said “Blake is listening some dreadlocked Jew who looks like… like Dennis Rodman!” I wanted to fly away— in that moment, I wanted to get, get, get away so badly. (Dad really does not like “The Worm”) As a result that album was confiscated and never to be seen again. Thank God for Columbia House and BMG music memberships. More than once, I snuck out and took the train downtown to see concerts. “In The Venue, Bricks, Kilby Court” were where the venues I most frequented. Occasionally I had to call my mom to pick me up at the Trax station nearest our house. She would arrive annoyed, occasionally relieved and I was usually grounded for a week or so whenever I pulled one of those stunts.

I will admit I stole three CD’s from the prize drawer at the station when the receptionist’s back was turned. My rational was that they would give me a CD every time for showing up to pick up an unrelated prize. One day another person was at the front desk and showed me a sticky note that read: “Blake Anderson is stealing CDs” and I was too embarrassed to show my face there again. I didn’t realize, or I hadn’t considered, until I was shown that yellow scrap of paper how I disrespected the people who were responsible for some of my best memories. This is something I regret. I have tried to minimize the guilt I have felt over the years by telling myself “they were promotional CDs and they weren’t of much value considering their purpose was to be given away.” But, it does not change the fact that it was a shitty thing to do, even for a 16 year-old.

My interest in radio continued into my adult life and I served as intern for ESPN/KALL 700’s Bill and Hans show for several months. I interviewed athletes, broadcasters, assisted in production of remote broadcasts, Real Salt Lake games and in-studio. The pinnacle of my time there was an interview with John Stockton when he was promoting the release of his book “Assisted.” I was part of a 30-minute segment with Hans Olsen and Kieth Stubbs in which they interviewed me about my interview with Mr. Stockton— sort of like radio inception.

Thanks for reading.

-Blake

My family is conservative. My grandmother told each man who was to marry into the West family that vasectomies were not permitted. Today this sentiment is a part of the family crest, next to a vaccine syringe with a red "X" over it. The West family were anti-vaxxers before it wasn't cool. As a matter of fact, I have never been vaccinated, other than one tetanus shot when I was ten-years old. I am not taking any kind of stand, I just wasn’t vaccinated, for anything. I am in relatively good health today and I have been fortunate in this regard. My maladies are of a cerebral variety. I will say that I do not believe that vaccines cause autism as some do. Especially considering the fact that I was not on the spectrum until Dr. TikTok made the diagnosis.     

My family is so conservative they only pass food to the right at the dinner table. My father once saw a same-sex couple holding hands in Home Depot and he now refuses to shop there and refers to it now as "Homo Depot."   My family is so conservative that  my mother recently flew to Washington DC on a Wednesday to meet some friends. In addition to being conservative, my family is for the most part still indoctrinated by the Mormon church; fully bought-in. My "birds and bees" talk came at the hands of a counselor employed by LDS family services, so there were some gaps needing to be filled, to say the least. I had no clue as to what courtship was supposed to look like.

I was homeschooled in ninth grade. Every morning, I had to attend seminary at Butler Middle School and I rode my bicycle home afterward, which served as my P.E. credit. It was this seminary class in which I met my biggest high school crush, Mary. I was fascinated by her immediately, she was different. She was petite, had blonde hair, blue eyes and the brightest smile I had ever seen. Mary was affable and had a sharp wit, above all she was kind-hearted. On the last day of that school year,  in my piss-yellow DC Shoes hoodie and my new pair of skate shoes, I raised the courage and I asked her for her phone number. She wrote her number on my hand before she walked back to the school's main building. I was elated as I rode home that day.

Mary and I became fast friends, until my parents caught wind.  I was not 16, which is the age Church deems the appropriate age to date; or even interact with the opposite sex outside of Sunday school. I could only talk to her if she called me and occasionally my parents would let me return a message if she left one. One evening while we were talking she mentioned that she didn’t have a date for the homecoming dance. Consequences be damned, I asked her to go with me and she said yes. Luckily my mother allowed me to take her since it was a group of four. She wore a maroon and black dress. I wore a black suit and shirt to match the color of her gown, by coincidence. I hadn't learned what she would be wearing until I bought the corsage.

Picture this: a socially awkward, clumsy teenager learning to square-dance on the fly. I kept stepping on her heels and gown as she tried to teach me the movement. Slow-dancing was really just waddling around in circles with very little eye contact. I was doing everything in my power to avoid staring down her shirt as we swayed right-to-left with her arms on my shoulders. To this point it was the most attention I had received from the opposite sex and also the same night I understood the versatility of my boxer's waistband.

After the dance we went to see a movie. I had pulled a fast one-- I thought. I wanted to see a rated-R movie and I knew that they wouldn't sell me the tickets at the theater. So I bought them online and my mom let me use her credit card and when we get to the theater, I told mom that she had to pick up the tickets at the window because it was her credit card and we would get our snacks while she did. Tickets and popcorn in hand we walked to the usher and just as we did, we were met by the manager. I underestimated my mom-- but she didn’t want to dress me down in front of my date. She noticed the rating on Freddy Got Fingered was R and she told the theater employees to not let us into the movie we bought tickets for. I don't remember which movie we saw instead, I think it was Bubble Boy. I tried arguing my point with the manager, that my mother had purchased the tickets for us and by doing so should have acted as consent in lieu of parental-guidance, but he would not budge. But he did say if we were to wander into Freddy Got Fingered after Bubble Boy concluded we could catch the last half hour of that showing.

Mom 234 - Blake 0. After the movie, my mom picked us up and dropped the other kids home without mentioning a word about my insubordinate behavior. I didn’t so much as hold Mary's hand that night. As I write this now I am overcome with "cringe" as the kids say.

Mary had a boyfriend throughout most of high school, but her and I remained friends. She would smile and wave at me every time we crossed paths in the hallway, usually with her boyfriend Kurt's arm around her as she was walking to her next class. Kurt had everything I thought. He had a WRX, he was athletic, a talented artist, handsome and of course Mary. I was the fat, awkward, WWF watching, home-schooled kid who dressed in black concert t-shirts and carried around a backpack covered in metallic ink. I could only look down on Kurt because I was taller.

Fast-forward to senior year, 2003-04. Mary and Kurt were on the outs and he was not going to take her to homecoming. But this time, instead of asking her on the phone I was going to do something memorable. Well, I remember it. I borrowed my mother's best stationary and wrote on it with my distinctive and elegant cursive "meet me here after school." thinking that it would be a surprise to her. I bought the finest roses I could find from Dan's supermarket and I brought them to her as she was standing at her locker with our mutual friend Nadya and I asked her if she would go to homecoming with me. With a look of obligation rather than excitement, she accepted. She already knew I wasn’t going to make a move and I hadn't learned how to square dance either. Side note: women of all ages do not give a fuck about excellent penmanship.

The dance was still a few weeks away and in this time I started going to the gym every morning at 5:00 before school. Mostly because it was when Mary went and I saw this as an opportunity to get closer to her. In the short time that I had been going I had lost a noticeable amount of weight. Mary, Nadya and I started spending more time together and the Saturday before the dance, the three of us were at Nadya's house planning the following week's activities. One of the girls suggested we play a game and Out came the Ouija board. My mother warned me against dabbling in the dark arts; despite her love for the Harry Potter series. I participated nervously as Mary and Nadya called upon  the nearest available entity. We started asking Pauley Purgatory the standard questions: "are you a good spirit or bad? Do you know my deceased friend?" and so on. Then Nadya asked the question "is Blake a virgin?" and in his infinite post-mortal bro-code wisdom, Pauley answered "no… except on Sundays."  I was stunned and ashamed, because I had not told anyone, especially my biggest crush that Sundays were the only day of the week in which I did not engage in my regular self-care routine, if you catch my drift. Mary then asked "is Blake ever going to get married" and the curser moved to answer yes. Because I was such a smooth-operator I asked the next question "to someone I know?" and the cursor again moved to answer yes and I immediately locked eyes with Mary, then I quickly shifted my gaze to Nadya before looking back to the board. Then our new acquaintance had to take another call and we ended our session. The next week we go to the dance in a group of six and it went about as well as you could have expected taking into account previous context. At one point during the evening, Mary even had to ask me to sit next to her on the couch because my attention was consumed by a Seinfeld rerun as I sat on a beanbag on the floor in front of her.

As a parenthetical note, even today I am not a ladies man. Despite my broad-shouldered, 6'1'' frame and confident, bearded-Viking like resemblance, I find myself awash with shame instinctively whenever I have thoughts of pursuing a woman I like. The LDS doctrine is so ingrained into my DNA, I cannot help but feel that wanting to fuck the Christ out of someone is wrong, despite my terrestrial knowledge telling me that it is natural. Whenever I think that I have found someone worthy of my "Melchize-dick" I split the difference and I say nothing. Do nothing. In 2003 I was even more of an insecure mess, if that is possible. I couldn’t even take my shirt off in the locker room let alone the opposite sex.

A week later I had scheduled an appointment to chat with my bishop about some things that had been on my mind. After the normal small talk I begin by telling him that I was recently in a basement alone with two young women and I noticed his posture and glare became more focused. I continue by telling him that with these girls we summoned a dark spirit and it had said things about me which I had not told anyone. With a sort of disappointed look on his face now, he then related to me by telling me about a time he had gone to a psychic and experienced something similar. He concluded our visit by asking me if I had been "keeping the temple clean." Of course I lied and told him I was not “holding to the rod-- the iron rod” (there really are a lot of masturbation euphemisms from the hymn book). I also did not tell him what my new friend Pauley Purgatory had said though, only that it was something I had not told anyone.

18 years later when I was making a delivery on the same street Nadya lived on in high school, it hit me. Recently I watched a video on social media about ADHD issues and how it is commonplace for the afflicted to repeatedly tell the same story, as well as be unaware of certain things they have shared with others in conversation as a defense mechanism. I then recalled a memory of an annoyed co-worker saying to me "you say that every time" when I would share my association with Mrs. Field's Cookies anytime the name was mentioned as a perspective client. I went to one year of private school with Mrs. Field's daughter; true story. Then it hit me-- I had to have forgotten that I told Mary that I "kept the Sabbath day holy" and this was her way of telling me it was okay to make a move, without telling me. I was so sheltered and indoctrinated that I actually believed a spirit-in-limbo made a dick joke and I ran to confess my sin of my meddling in the dark arts to my bishop. And because I was vague with the details and I lied about "leaning upon my ample arm" my bishop was not able to say "she's trying to tell you something, you fucking idiot! She likes you." I like to think that he would have done me that courtesy, he was actually a good guy.

As I look back, Mary tried everything and I now know what that look she used to give me meant. That "how are you not getting this, you big, dumb fuck?" look. She even tried to sacrifice a virgin when she set me up with my first girlfriend. Once I finally realized what had happened I had to shout the thought out of my head as the blood left my face. Driving alone in Cottonwood Heights, Utah I said aloud: "Goddammit” with a Baroque-like rhythm.

The moral of the story, kids: don't lie to your bishop about taking care of your needs. Unless you want something to write about later.

Shame begats shame begats the socially awkward. Thanks for reading.

-Blake