In 1972, Easton West was sent to prison by a military court for a crime he didn’t commit. Easton promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Northern-Central Kentucky underground. Today, still wanted by the government, he survives as a DJ of fortune cookies.
If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find him… maybe you can hear… Easton West. (gunshot sfx, gunshot sfx, gunshot sfx, gunshot sfx, gunshot sfx. (cue music…) Bum buh-duh duuuh, Bum bum buuuuh…
OK, so maybe I watched a bit too much TV as a kid, but it was the 70’s & 80’s… “Candid Camera,” “M*A*S*H,” and “the A-Team,” weren’t gonna watch themselves.
After surviving childhood and then higher education at Florida State University, I accidentally landed my first radio gig doing weekend overnights in Daytona Beach, Florida. When those guys fired me for romancing the radio station Traffic Director, ( unsuccessfully, I guess), I then relocated to South Louisiana for an afternoon-drive air shift, followed by another move, this time to Lexington, KY for some weekend air shifts as well as making their radio commercials (I apologize for that). When Those punks laid me off, I worked remotely from my basement bunker editing together true-crime-ish podcasts for a worldwide internet music service. When THOSE bastards laid me off, ( you haven’t worked in radio until you’ve been fired or laid off at least once) I found Passport Radio in nearby Frankfort, where my worldly velvet-laden tones grace the airwaves of 103.7 and 102.1, “The Best Music of the 60’s, 70’s & 80’s.”
In my spare time, I enjoy watching comedies, eating out ( or at least not having to do the dishes), and pretending to exercise in my VR goggles. My smart, beautiful, loving wife, 4 amazing children, and 3 kookie cats ( Tails, Jinx, & MoJo ) keep me grounded and are the reason I’m the luckiest son-of-a-gun this side of the Mobius Ring.
Well, it was nice chatting with you, but now I gotta go… “B.A.” is about to fashion a mini-tank out of an old golf cart, some rusted steel barrels, and an abandoned yet conveniently full propane torch.
Will Col. Decker ever learn?
