Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except,
Clear Channel preparing to institute 15 national company channels, so they can automate everything and alleviate themselves of a payroll, except for a few voice trackers and board ops in San Antonio.
Or Sumner Redstone preparing to dump CBS for the assumption of the debt load, if there are even any takers.
Or Emmis Radio preparing to slaughter the New York Rock Experience that practically flat lined the day after the launch.
Or a who’s who of companies forever lost in penny stock land, scurrying without a clue or a compass how to get home, or how to refinance their insurmountable debt load, because neither the banks nor anyone else, will accept their stock as collateral or currency.
Or the scores of radio professionals staring at a dinosaur industry while standing at the gateway of their demise.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. Like,
The big 42 minutes of music every hour, complete with continual contest pronouncements that completely hype a listener out of existence.
Or the all Christmas all the time stations pondering how to stretch the holidays into January before another round of layoffs, or impending voice tracks that capture the threshold of pain.
Or the rating company demonstrating the they can manipulate limited listener fatigue measurements into a facade of numerical apertures of expanded listening patterns for its self deprecating subscribing stations.
Or the I-BOC technology that no one has or will ever want.
So let's have a holiday poem of the wonders of the slice of the electromagnetic spectrum that we loved so much, a medium that the current radio companies have, managed, monopolized, homogenized, and decimated piece by piece, day by day. Our beloved monolithic over-leveraged terrestrial radio, that has turned a deaf ear to the graduating likes, tastes, and desires of the listening world while relegating the interaction of the aforementioned to the newer portable protocol probabilities. We can count our blessings as we stand as observant witnesses to a painful industry death, erstwhile we use radio’s penny stocks for what they are worth. Toilet tissue.
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
Clear Channel preparing to institute 15 national company channels, so they can automate everything and alleviate themselves of a payroll, except for a few voice trackers and board ops in San Antonio.
Or Sumner Redstone preparing to dump CBS for the assumption of the debt load, if there are even any takers.
Or Emmis Radio preparing to slaughter the New York Rock Experience that practically flat lined the day after the launch.
Or a who’s who of companies forever lost in penny stock land, scurrying without a clue or a compass how to get home, or how to refinance their insurmountable debt load, because neither the banks nor anyone else, will accept their stock as collateral or currency.
Or the scores of radio professionals staring at a dinosaur industry while standing at the gateway of their demise.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. Like,
The big 42 minutes of music every hour, complete with continual contest pronouncements that completely hype a listener out of existence.
Or the all Christmas all the time stations pondering how to stretch the holidays into January before another round of layoffs, or impending voice tracks that capture the threshold of pain.
Or the rating company demonstrating the they can manipulate limited listener fatigue measurements into a facade of numerical apertures of expanded listening patterns for its self deprecating subscribing stations.
Or the I-BOC technology that no one has or will ever want.
So let's have a holiday poem of the wonders of the slice of the electromagnetic spectrum that we loved so much, a medium that the current radio companies have, managed, monopolized, homogenized, and decimated piece by piece, day by day. Our beloved monolithic over-leveraged terrestrial radio, that has turned a deaf ear to the graduating likes, tastes, and desires of the listening world while relegating the interaction of the aforementioned to the newer portable protocol probabilities. We can count our blessings as we stand as observant witnesses to a painful industry death, erstwhile we use radio’s penny stocks for what they are worth. Toilet tissue.
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
