KBHR570 Group

To the Wonderful Cicelians Tuning In:

There's this thing that happens when you press a button—any button, really—and sound comes out the other end. Could be a transistor radio crackling to life in some Idaho truck stop, could be your phone at 2 AM when sleep won't come and the silence gets too loud. Doesn't matter. What matters is you're there, on the other end of these invisible waves we're riding together.

And you are. You are there.

Look, I've been doing this long enough to know that nobody—and I mean nobody—stumbles onto an internet radio station broadcasting from the fictional coordinates of Cicely, Alaska by accident. You found us because you were looking for something. Maybe you didn't know what. Maybe you still don't. But somewhere between The Oscar Project's beer fueled humor and Smokie Bernstein's coffee-stained wisdom, between Nothing’s Perfect and whatever madness spills out during The Friday Night…

Now, I've been thinking about this spectacle we call the Winter Games. Every four years, humanity gathers in some snow-covered corner of the planet to watch our finest physical specimens strap slats of fiberglass to their feet and launch themselves off ramps at velocities that would make Evel Knievel reach for the Maalox. We're talking about people who look at a forty-degree slope covered in ice and think, "You know what this needs? Me. Going eighty miles per hour. Backwards."

Consider the luge for a moment. The luge, friends. This is an event where the optimal body position is "supine missile" and the track designers apparently moonlight as roller coaster sadists. You're lying on your back, steering with your calves, separated from catastrophic injury by a helmet and what I can only assume is a profound faith in physics. It's like someone watched a kid go down a playground slide…