“Hey, it’s almost 10. Turn on the radio. Seacrest is about to start.” Said no one, ever.
I was on Maui and visiting with a friend who had successfully fought and beat cancer like it was her bitch. A celebration was in order. And on Maui, a place so laid back that an EKG would be hard-pressed to pick up a sign of life, a celebratory party like this involves a backyard barbecue. A dozen friends. Some coolers of beer. A pig on a spit and some music.
We were well into it the festivities, sitting around in lawn chairs, wind in the palms, enjoying the dinner and each other’s company when a neighbor, Wayne, said “Get the radio! The pirate’s about to start!” and someone dashed inside to get an old beat up boombox. He came back out, plugged it in, the party continued and I was exposed to The Polynesian Pirate and a couple of hours of the most amazing Radio I’ve ever heard.