"Hey Bob, what‘re ya up to today?", I asked my friend. Bob is well known for his random acts of randomness and is usually a good source of entertainment. There’s usually not a whole lot to do in Endswell, our home town

"I tried all night not to break down and cry, as the tears rolled down my face. I felt so cold and empty like a lost soul out of place.", responded Bob in a mournful sing-song manner. "Oh, hey Jack. That stupid plate in my head’s picking up radio again. Give me something to believe in" When Bob was eight, I talked him into riding a sled down a small ice covered mountain. It ended very abruptly, as trees tend to be immovable. He never held it against me; mainly because he doesn’t remember anything about it. The plate would sometimes pick up stray radio signals and conflict with his "normal" thoughts.

"Picking up anything interesting today?", I inquired.

"No, Dr. Laura’s not on today; it’s "80’s Classic Weekend. I’ve seen a million faces, and I’ve rocked them all.", wailed Bob in a decent Bon Jovi parody. "Cause I’m a cowboy; on a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted, wanted, dead or alive."

"Hey," I told him, "at least it’s not Fashion Nugget again."

"Thank God for that. Man was I embarrassed. I’m lucky they didn’t expel me." Bob really had been lucky; not only had he been shouting out Fashion Nugget in English class, but the principal’s metal detector made him go blind and pee his pants.

"See If you can pick up a weather forecast. If it’s gonna clear up, we’ll go to the mall or something." Having a friend with a radio skull did have a few advantages.

"Highs in the mid eighties to low nineties. For this afternoon look for partially cloudy to mostly sunny skies. Now back the home of the best of the eighties, seventies, and nineties, WGAC. ‘Okay, by request we have Van Halen’s Top Gun Anthem, some Whitesnake, and a little Joe Walsh comin’ at ya. But before that we‘ve got some Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch .", intoned Bob in what was by now was a great DJ voice. "Oh not that, anything but that."

"Man, I didn’t think any station actually owned any of their music. Quick, change stations." I quipped. Changing stations involved tapping himself head with a metal object, but compared to going through another four-minuet air guitar solo it was slightly less painful. For me anyway.

"Welcome to NPR News and Comment, brought to you by....oh, hell NO!" Bob smacked himself on the head again. "Well, it’s the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, no outs. It looks like the Braves have cinched yet another vict...." Bob immediately hit his head again. The last thing he needed right now was another lawsuit from Major League Baseball; they’re pretty serious about their broadcast rights. Unfortunately for Bob, he swung so hard that he cracked his skull plate; knocking himself unconscious in the process. Being the good friend I claim to be, I called an ambulance and explained what had happened.

It all turned out OK in the end. Bob got a new carbon-fiber plate, so no more radio head. I apologized for making him sled down the hill. Bob got a job at the local radio station; the manager said he was a natural. Bob was even nice enough to get me on as part of the afternoon crew. We managed to round up every album by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch and played a song from it every day. So all’s well in Endswell