A recent post about a day in radio news ended with me saying the gaffe I wrote about “wasn’t even my worst.” A reader – thanks, Lee! – asked, so what WAS the worst?

Hmmmmm – the worst mistake I ever made on air? That’s a tough one to narrow down. I was in radio for more than 35 years. That included hosting music shows to talk shows, to cohosting morning shows, to newscasting, to anchoring and co-anchoring news. I was a Music Director and a Program Director at different times. There were plenty of opportunities for mistakes and I definitely took several of them!

For sheer horror and fear of losing my job, I would have to pinpoint this gem from the early 1990s at MIX 999, Toronto. (Studio pictured above. Now Virgin 999)

THE BEST OF THE WORST

If you don’t remember the MIX, it played a huge variety of music. We hosts had to say things like Mixissauga instead of Mississauga. We were mandated to work the MIX name into everything possible.

The MIX mascot was Mixosaurus, a huge costume that various interns wore to remotes and MIX sponsored events. The head alone was super heavy and had a battery-powered fan inside for cooling. But the wearer still sweat buckets. Those who had to wear it said it was damp inside and never completely dried out.

It was stored in a specific closet on the second floor at the 2 St. Clair Ave. West studios. After an event, the kid would call up to the studio and whoever was on air would have to go down a staircase to a door at street level, and drag the huge duffel bag up to the closet.

One weekend, that on air host was me. The kid phoned, I waited to start another song and then hurried down the stairs. Seeing me arrive, the kid ran off having dropped the massive bag just out of my reach. I leaned forward with my toe holding the door open and just for a second I jumped ahead to grab the bag. The sound of the door clicking shut behind me struck terror into my heart. Now I was outside the building trying not to panic.

I knew I had about three minutes to get inside and back upstairs. I didn’t have my security access card on me. And the door that had shut was one of those key-only doors not meant for regular entering and exiting. I left the bag, sprinted across the front of the building to the real entry doors and began banging on the glass. The slowest, most unconcerned security guard in the world ambled over. I explained what had happened and that I had to get upstairs fast because the song would end. He let me in and walked so slowly, I practically danced around him to try to get him to speed up. He was having none of it. I figured I was finished.

SIDEBAR ABOUT THE GUARD

He reminded me of Marvin the Paranoid Android from the Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy movie. Marvin was voiced with glorious indifference by the late, great Alan Rickman.

NOW, WHERE WERE WE?

I took the stairs two at a time while the guard rode the elevator to the second floor. I thought my heart would explode while I waited for him to catch up. He walked slowly to the door and waved his card in front. When the light turned from red to green I took off through the doors, leaving him behind.

By the time I got into the studio, there was no sound coming from the board. Therefore, the radio station was emitting nothing. Dead air. The worst. I dove to the board to hit a button to start the next song. Then I braced myself for the hotline to ring.

Hotline, batphone – it had a few names. Only staff and managers knew the phone number. This was an era when our Program Director lit up that hotline on the regular. “Don’t say that.” “Next time, word it this way.” “Why did you play those songs back to back? That’s not what’s on the music sheet.” It was part of the gig to – some days – take several calls from the boss as he scrutinized your work in real time. You’d turn off the mic and wait for the call. Stressful? You bet.

But there was nothing. Not a word. I knew we had listeners because the phone lines lit up for requests and giveaways, but miraculously, the boss must have been busy elsewhere. Nothing. Happened.

My nerves didn’t really settle until the following week, when no memo appeared and no tongue-lashing arrived. I can’t know for certain how long there was dead air but the alarm hadn’t sounded. I recall that the alarm was set to trip after 40 seconds of dead air. So, despite the security guard moving like he needed an orange triangle on his butt, I had made it back in good time.

But I still had to bring in that damn mascot duffel bag! And I did so very, very carefully. I also got a clip for my access card and it never left my body after that.

DISHONORABLE MENTIONS

CKGY, Red Deer, Alberta, early 1980s. I was as green as Kermit the Frog and hosting the overnight all-request show while trying to maintain a social life. You know, an early 20-something fool who burned the candle at both ends, subsisting on beer and pizza.

One night my colleague, friend and eventual roommate Ron was working into the wee hours in another studio. I developed a technical problem in the on-air studio and summoned Ron to fix it. I couldn’t get the speakers to work. As I stood in front of the microphone letting loose a string of F and S words, Ron suddenly clapped his hand over my mouth and pulled me back from the control board. I had left the mic on and that’s why I couldn’t get any volume on the speakers. D’OH! Listeners had been treated to one of today’s country hits with some woman swearing a blue streak over it.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Every time I messed up a famous person’s name has stuck with me like gum to a shoe.

At my first country radio station, I caused a frenzy of phone calls by messing up the surnames of two legends: “Jim Cline and Patsy Reeves.” When country legend Marty Robbins died, I got a frog in my throat as I shared the news on air. People thought I was crying and called to console me. I went along with it because the truth was too embarrassing and I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. The X-Files was a huge hit but it wasn’t my thing. So when I talked about star, “David Due-shove-nee”, I sounded pretty lame. And those are just a few of them.

You have to remember that there was no Internet then. We couldn’t just find a video and hear a person’s name said properly. Sometimes we relied on each other and those on whom we relied were wrong! But we had no choice, really. Then we’d hang our heads in embarrassment when we found out, but always pick ourselves and our bruised egos up, and carry on.

NEWS NIGHTMARE

I had an apathetic producer on my first ever on-air shift at 680 News. I was getting my feet wet on the midday show with the intense “news wheel” format before I joined the morning show as co-anchor. There were no more stories and I hit the intercom to tell the producer who held up the “just a minute” finger because he was on the phone. Then he turned his back to me.

At the last second, he put down the phone and pushed some stories into my file.

The commercials ended. Remember, I haven’t seen what I’m about to read live on air. I proceeded to butcher about a half-dozen names of Indigenous tribes from central Canada in a story about flooding. It was brutal. The names were long, unfamiliar, and complicated. Not only was I embarrassed, I was furious. The producer and I had a chat when I got off the air. He didn’t work there much longer for what I assume were similar priority issues.

I will never forget getting back to my desk and the phone ringing. It was morning show writer Thomas D’Monte laughing so hard he could barely speak. So, one person’s nightmare can be another’s comedy!

Maybe, if there’s an appetite for it, one day I’ll write about silly radio rules I had to work under that haven’t aged well. And some weren’t great at the time, either. But today, the spotlight’s on the error of my ways. I got it right more than I got it wrong, but it’s “getting it wrong” that always stays with you!