When I arrived with my wife, dog, cat and Ryder truck in San Francisco in September of 1991 I was in less-than-a-great mood. The truck had blown tires in Illinois and Iowa. Our golden retriever had come down with a kidney infection somewhere between Nebraska and Nevada. And United Broadcasting had hopelessly screwed up my moving arrangements. Which is actually a warning sign: if they can’t handle basic details like temp housing and reimbursement for expenses, they’re going to probably eff up a lot more down the line.
So, a couple of days late I carry my Jim Beam box of office accoutrement from the hotel over to the radio station and discover that I have inherited the worst Promotion Coordinator in Radio.
I walk into the office, put down my box and introduce myself to the young woman who had been holding down the promo fort for about six months.
Her first words of greeting were “You’re not going to be one of those people who tells me to do shit, are you?”
I really didn’t have a ready response to that but she saved us an awkward pause by diving right into a litany of complaints. She’d had to work weekends and overtime while the station was without a director and she’d added up all of the hours and submitted them and “they’re not going to pay me. Is that fucked up or what? But they gave me 22 comp days so I want to take off Thanksgiving through New Year.” Read more…