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more into the music side of things, you, Richard, would like the MD job with the weekend shifts. And that Michael would be suited for mornings. Now the money isn’t equal, I warn you. But I’ll discuss that with each of you privately, if you wish. Or together, if you don’t have a problem with it.”
    We looked at each other. At WLIR, we’d both made the same amount. But I wasn’t about to be jealous if Harrison made more, and I hoped he felt the same. “I’ve got no problem discussing it now,” I said. Michael nodded his assent.
    “We are a little embarrassed here. I don’t know what you’re making now and when you hear our offer, you might not want the job. FM money isn’t like it is on the other side of the dial. Revenues aren’t, either. But it’s not negotiable. You’ll find I don’t start low and bid myself up. I make a fair offer, take it or leave it.”
    Oh, no. Finally, a chance for a job at WNEW-FM and we might lose money on the deal? It was costing us a lot for tolls and parking to get into the city from Long Island. Even in 1971, parking could run over sixty dollars a week. But even for less money, the chance to work there was irresistible.
    Paulsen saw the fear flash across our faces. “The music gig plus weekends pays $350 a week. The morning show $425. You boys talk it over and let us know. Scott, can I see you for a moment?” he said, leaving the room to give us privacy.
    There was little time to reflect on the inequities the offer presented. Although the seventy-five-dollar pay differential was substantial then, $350 a week was more than I’d ever hoped to make in my first big radio job. Five shows in the morning might be preferable to two programs on weekends but in 1971, mornings were the least important shift on FM radio. The music director’s position was prestigious and filled with fringe benefits, although I was unaware of how extravagant they could be at this level. Rather than coldly evaluate who was coming out ahead in this deal, I was so happy that we’d both have the opportunity to continue to work together at the station of our dreams that the call was a no-brainer.
    “Are you okay with this?” Michael asked me.
    “Are you kidding? We got it made. Let’s go for it.”
    We tried to act professionally and not too giddy as we told Paulsen of our decision to accept. He shook our hands firmly and smiled, genuinely happy for us. We might have wondered how far down on the list we were and if others had turned down the same offer, but at that moment, we were too elated to be anything but completely overjoyed. We ran to the studio to share the good news with Alison, and she congratulated us.
    “I knew you guys had it all along,” she said.
    “It would have been nice if you’d told us,” I answered.
    In the eighties, Wall Street was where the action was. The nineties saw the rise of computers—software and the World Wide Web. At various times in the last decades of the past millennium, the glamour profession might have been professional athlete, politician, actor, rock star, TV talk show host. But I’m convinced that at the beginning of the seventies, there was no greater glory than being a disc jockey at WNEW-FM.
    At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the very idea seems laughable. Today, in terms of financial position and cultural respect, disc jockeys are on the lower deck of a sinking ship. They are generally paid modest salaries in relation to other entertainers, and are deemed as replaceable as bald tires. At the first sight of ratings trouble, they are abandoned by their corporate superiors for the next flavor of the month. Instead of creating culture, they mimic it. One radio savant recently opined that in every other phase of entertainment, a presentation is greeted with, “That’s been done before, got anything original?” In radio, it’s “Where has this succeeded before?” Uniqueness is now career poison, as in real estate, where the word “quaint”