Disclaimer:
As is the premise of the YELLOW PAGES, the following is a completely fictional account and, to the author’s knowledge, is not based on any real event. The purpose of this account is solely for cheap amusement at someone else’s expense.

Day 1:

I watched, paralyzed, as twenty sweaty palms forced their way through the crowded bins.

As the big white door in the basement of Barrows Hall opened, a goth version of Velma from Scooby Doo greeted me with a stoic glare. She looked me up and down less to note the contrast in our appearances, and more to silently say “What are you doing here?” She then strutted away towards a group of grim-faced scenesters with hefty artistic chips on their shoulders, who hovered awkwardly around plastic bins filled with CDs. This sideshow of bleached-blonde indie-rock kids and electronic music hounds was charged with the duty of seeing what stayed at KALX and what got pawned at Amoeba.

They rifled through release after shitty release, searching frantically for some tight beats (that no one had heard before) and maybe some cool names to drop.
“OOOH! There’s the new Ladytron album... ON VINYL!!” “Wow! Kruder and Dorfmeister!”

I watched, paralyzed, as twenty sweaty palms forced their way through the crowded bins. It was indescribable... like seeing a horde of hungry sharks eviscerating a blowfish or something.

Day 2:

From the dilapidated radio in the lobby blaring the sounds of KALX, I could vaguely make out some trashy European techno song. It was a Tueday afternoon, a time usually allotted to a girl whose radio alterego was named “Linda Lou.” Her schtick was playing really bad and irritating country music, the kind to which you might kill yourself (or someone else)—but, judging from the static reverberating from the stereo, someone must have been “subbing” for her. I walked to the DJ station to have a look at who was manning the tables. At the mic, there sat a rather unsavory character who went by the name of “Union Jack,” playing a decidedly narrow selection of obscure British pop-rock periodically interrupted by smug, self-satisfying forays into kitschy disco shit that no self-respecting person could actually like. Obviously just another bloated white American kid from the burbs, this guy was decked out in a monstrous English flag + shirt (proudly bearing the name “Manchester United” on the collar), yellow insect-style sunglasses, and hair Brylcreamed down to the follicles. ...And then there was his accent.

“’Ello. That was Nid’s Ataumic Doostbin with a tyoon cauld ‘Kill Your Telly’.” His pseudo-cockney accent was so contrived, and with such obscene disregard for decency... “Next oop, weef got some fan-tastic remixes of some early London Suade...” As Jack went on to provide, in excruciating detail, various facts and figures regarding that particular band, I snorted in a rare combination of shame, pity, and disgust.

Day 3:

There are a ton of records and CDs in the KALX library, 65,000 to be exact. Nevertheless, it took me a good two to three minutes of browsing to find an artist whose name I recognized (I finally stumbled on the first Squirrel Bait album). I was flipping through a warping mass of LPs and long-forgotten showtunes when I heard someone on the other side of the shelf. Not one to engage in conversation, I held still before making any moves. I managed to see through a narrow gap in the shelf a semi-attractive girl who looked like she had fallen down a flight of stairs holding an open tacklebox. She was wearing a fading Smiths shirt and running her hands through the blue streaks in her hair. Opposite her was a gangly, nappy-haired individual of indeterminate gender, with horn-rimmed glasses, green shorts, purple Converse All-Stars, and tube socks with unsightly red stripes across the top. Straining, I could make out bits of conversation.

“Do you like Man... or Astroman?”

“I used to... like back in ’95!”

“No way! What about Maids of Gravity?”

I cringed. They were having an insipid, played-out conversation. The musical equivalent of tech-talk. A redundant debate about how “so-and-so sold-out,” “my band is more obscure than yours,” “eew, they’re not on an indie label,” “fuck your scene,” etc. I knew the routine all too well. My glasses were too mainstream for this conversation.

Day 4:

I had been there about 3 minutes when an Asian girl with pink bangs suddenly burst into the room. “HEY EVERYONE!! I JUST GOT OFF THE PHONE WITH THE SEA AND CAKE’S MANAGER! THEY MIGHT BE COMING TO THE STATION FOR AN INTERVIEW!” The room was suddenly filled with “oohs,” and “ahs,” the likes of which I hadn’t heard since the Smurfs. All the regulars looked at each other, bobbing their heads approvingly, with a look like “Wow... the Sea and Cake is coming to our station!” Apparently I was the only one in the room who hadn’t heard of this band... I was filled with great shame and alienation.

Day 5:

On my first day of formal DJ training, I was placed under the care of a guy named Nick, who never seemed to leave the station premises. I was required to watch him during his show so I could learn to use all the knobs on the mixing board. “Dude, deejaying is really easy, man,” he said, motioning towards the complicated setup of production equipment, turntables, and CD players. “You just gotta know how to use the knobs.”

Before I could even acknowledge the comment, he turned on the mic and morphed into his DJ double: “You’re listening to the Dub Bionic on your KALX! Let’s get started with some music!” Hmmm... what should I play, what should I play! he muttered softly. “Oh—Here’s a great record! Uh, this record was first released last year on 7 inch from Detroit’s Red Monkey Records. The first 500 records were hand numbered and on, um... green vinyl... So that’s very cool. Red Monkey Records just put out a great compilation record, with the A side of that single, which is called, um, ‘Dub Voyage No. 5...’ with a B side from another record...”

I watched in awe as he bombarded the airwaves with a winding series of esoteric names, numbers, and facts. Finally, as the rapid-fire drum breaks from the first track started to groove their way into electronic clichés, he reminded the listeners that they were tuned to KALX. Slowly, he lowered the volume on the mic knob and leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms. Suddenly his voice was normal again: “Yeah, so it’s pretty straightforward.”

Later that day, I killed myself.