Trapped Like a Rat with HOWARD STERN

You’ve heard about those studies wherein they allow lab rats to smoke as much crack as they want, and the rats just keep smoking crack, forgoing food and sex, smoking more and more crack, until their little rat brains blow a fuse and they die. Well, I’ve noticed it’s been a while since I felt hungry or horny. In my cage, though, evil scientists have substituted a drug far more destructive and a lot louder. Its name is Howard Stern.

It didn’t used to he like this. During my half-hour drive to work, my radio never strayed from KERA and National Public Radio’s “Morning Edition.” Fighting traffic every morning, I took comfort in knowing that 1 was at least nourishing my mind, doing my civic duty by hearing what Congress was up to.

Then Howard Stern’s syndicated talk show came to town in September 1992, courtesy of the folks in white lab coats over at KEGL. 1 resisted at first. But a friend went for the stuff right away, and we argued about the show.

“It’s moronic,” 1 said, “I don’t care about the off-color humor; it’s just not funny.”

With a blissful look, the friend just laughed and said, “Aw, you only say that because you haven’t listened enough, gotten to know all the show’s characters and all that.”

“Never,” 1 said.

After making brief trips up the dial the first year, then furtively listening to Stern for progressively longer periods, and basically getting to know all the show’s characters and all that, I’m hooked. My tolerance is low, and I can still get high from small doses, but I now spend Hilly hall my morning drive listening to The King of All Media.

I still tight Stem Syndrome, but it’s a losing battle. When Stem set a new world’s record for bad taste with his remarks following the death of Selena, the Tejano singer, 1 almost punched out for good. What a racist…what a Nazi… but what about Robin, Stem’s engaging sidekick? She jus t happens to be African-American, and while she chides Stern for some of his more excessive excesses, she clearly loves the guy, even when he goes on at length about being terrified of tough blacks back when he was a skinny little New York nebbish trying to make it to school with his lunch money.

Now here he goes again, kibitzing with yet another Queen B-movie starlet who apparently wears a string bikini and a couple of Uzis in her latest straight-to-video release. I begin the countdown. 10…9…8..7… Yes, there’s the inevitable question. Has she? Would she? Did she in college? How many times? Anybody famous? And will she sit in his lap while i she tells all?

Arrgh. 1 switched to NPR. A sober-sounding Carl Castle says May’s crade -deficit num-bers look good. That’s certainly reassuring, but…

Back to Stern. He is ecstatic. “Oh? You’re kidding? Where? Oh, man. I wish I coulda been there”

By now I’m in the parking garage, but am unable to get out of my car until I have the answer. Did she? Would she? And why the hell should 1 care? So 1 roll up my windows and turn down the volume. And, like a rat, I keep on listening.