Bare Bones by Bobby Bones

guarded most of the time. And then when I had an occasion to be on, I was really on. I didn’t talk a lot, but when I did, I insisted everyone watch or listen to everything I did or said. I would sit at home and write “jokes.” I memorized funny movie lines and practiced in my best voice, which I guess was practice to become a radio announcer. I spent countless hours alone at home practicing for the three minutes people would pay attention to me. (It’s not unlike my life now, where I’m alone in my room for hours on end, practicing for the few hours a day people somewhat care what I have to say.)
    The idea that you could use your flaws to your benefit and that a quirky guy could be a star was obviously appealing to me. That’s part of the reason why my hero growing up was David Letterman. I used to get up when I was eight years old and switch the channel to NBC while my mom slept in her chair so I could watch Late Night . I didn’t know what the jokes meant, but I was still fascinated. No explanation was needed for the crazy physical stunts he did—like throwing watermelons off buildings and jumping into Styrofoam Dumpsters. That was hysterical and like nothing I’d ever seen before on TV. After I learned a little more about his life, I liked Letterman even more. I couldn’t believe that he had started out as a weatherman. Even during that job, though, he didn’t seem to have taken things too seriously (I read that he would sometimes report the weather of made-up cities, which got him into trouble). I admired the fact that he took a lot of risks and failed a lot—including a morning TV show that was canceled after only a couple of months. For obvious reasons I related to underdogs. He was even goofy looking like me. While watching Letterman and his dry, silly delivery night after night, I thought, I want to be like this person.
    In the meantime, though, I had to survive high school. I loved to get a laugh more than anything, but sometimes I directed my humor at the wrong folks. Once, during my freshman year, I overheard two seniors, huge linemen on the varsity football team who could have easily been mistaken for middle-aged mill workers, complaining about the game they lost. Our JV team had won our latest game and I just couldn’t help myself.
    â€œSo you guys lost?” I said. “Again? That must sting. We won. Again. Let me know if you want JV to show you a few moves.”
    Missing my clearly brilliant humor, the mill workers escorted me directly to the bathroom, picked me up, and shoved me into a stall, where I came face-to-face with the toilet. I couldn’t avoid the high-school-style waterboarding coming my way, but I fought it just long enough to flush the toilet. Then they dunked my whole head and held me down while they flushed again. As the water rushed around my head, I thought, Well, I was going in anyway. Now at least it’s clean water. And then for a second I thought I was going to drown in the toilet: This is how I’m going to die. (Spoiler alert: I didn’t die.)
    After the seniors released me, I went back about my business and headed to class—even though I had a soaking wet head. One thing you can say about me, I don’t give up easily.

SMOOTH OPERATOR
    People ask me all the time how I got into radio, and I’m always happy to tell the story because it’s a testament to the fact that to make it, you don’t have to know someone in the biz; have a friend that knows someone in the biz; or have a cousin whose mailman’s uncle knows someone in the biz and owes your cousin a favor. All I knew was what I wanted to do, which was be on the air. And I was going to take any job that would lead me to getting to that spot.
    I didn’t have any connections to radio, only passion. I had decided that radio was my calling after my fifth birthday, when my aunt Cindy bought me a small radio. But that wasn’t the only