“Filth Locker”




As a result of the work rules governed by “the contract” with NABET, announcing personnel would hang around the newsroom and production area three or four hours each day with minimal responsibilities, either before or after their actual “disc-jockey” shift.

There would usually be at least two or three other announcers sharing “News and Production” assignments with me each day. A normal individual work-load might be recording two commercials and maybe delivering a single forty-five second sports summary in each four-hour time block, which theoretically included an hour for “lunch”.

Naturally, idle minds became Satan’s playground.

The WTAC “Secret Archives” were housed in several large cardboard boxes which were stored by common consent in the transmitter room. The “Archives” contained the most extensive and thoroughly explored pornographic library anywhere east of Stockholm and the storage site was commonly referred to as “Our WTAC Filth Locker”.

The “Archives” also had an audio section. The primary content consisted of phone conversations recorded with “hot” participants sharing their most intimate, very personal secrets, wants, needs and desires with a WTAC disc-jockey who had asked his engineer to “run a tape” off the phone line. Other than Bill Green, the rock-hating technicians were more than eager to oblige, interest in “primed pussy” being demographically universal in attraction.

One could score zillions of “bonus points” within the peer group by coming up with an exceptionally stimulating passage or two. The very best material in quantity and quality usually turned up during the late evening and early morning hours of our WTAC broadcast day.

The true art was getting a caller to be very, very specific about her thoughts and promised actions. Delicious delight was taken in the delivery of details. Seductive, selective interrogation was sure to garner professional admiration and congratulation from all when productive. It was a matter of honor.

Well now, Kathy. Your name is Kathy? What are you doing Kathy?”

“Ummmmmmmmmmmm. Nothin’. Talkin’ to you. You make me hot!”

“How hot are you, Kathy?”

“I’m really hot. You know, just real horny!’

“How can you tell how hot you are, Kathy?”

“You know. Things happen!”

“No, I don’t know, Kathy. What sort of things happen?”

“I can’t tell you!”

“Of course you can tell me, Kathy. It’s important you tell me. Friends tell each other special things. If you tell me a special thing, it’ll mean you really want to be a special friend. A really, truly, special kind of friend.”

“Well, when I’m hot, I get all wet.”

“Where do you get all wet, Kathy?”

“Down there.”

“Down where, Kathy. Your toes? Your ankles?”


“Say where you get wet, Kathy!”

“My pussy gets wet.”

“What do you think about that makes your pussy so wet, Kathy?”

“I think about taking your super-big cock and licking it and sucking it and then you make me get all the way down on my hands and knees and you pull my panties off real rough and I stick my naked butt way up in the air and you slap my bare, creamy-white ass extra-good and get it all red and you stick your naughty thing in my hot cunt and fuck me there and then you take it out and shove it all up my tiny, tight asshole and I grunt like a bad little piggie.”

“That sounds very entertaining, Kathy. Thanks for listening. Stay hot!  Bye.”

Protocol required concluding such dialogue at the end of a particularly descriptive narrative. The necessity of “editing” a tape for maximum group enjoyment was considered amateurish and, importantly, one would not like to be perceived as personally becoming enticed by the call. This too suggested lack of true deviant class.

Experience also dictated an intriguing and frustrating axiom:

Almost without exception; the better the call, the uglier the caller.

It was obviously a case of nature compensating, substituting brains in the absence of beauty or a talent for licentious language in lieu of lovely looks.

Still, we would always like to imagine that any given call might be the rule-proving exception and, with this hopeful thought, we recorded on.

The Monkees had hit #1 with “I’m a Believer” and an incredible hype had been cranked-up by their record company. Everyone knew it was of artificial manufacture, but the music was well-produced and handily-crafted. The television show ripped-off “Hard Day’s Night”, even  as the group was musically attempting to clone the entire Beatles catalogue. But, it seemed to work. Within limits. The Beatles had stopped touring and had been busily at work in their studios for quite some time on a “new project”. Into the Beatle-vacated vacuum sprang The Monkees, offering no improvement on the original, but at least providing temporary replacement presence.

There was much more of significance coming down the line in new releases. Even as an insipid ballad by daughter Nancy and daddy Frank Sinatra (entitled, in a rare burst of unplanned truth in advertising, “Somethin’ Stupid”) climbed the charts and the best-selling album in England was the movie track to “The Sound of Music” in early Spring of ’67, something was happening. Shifting. Stretching. Shaping.

In March, the dream-like quality of “Ruby Tuesday” by the Rolling Stones spoke of ethereal, undefined, unstructured freedom in a passionate paean to a timeless tramp. Who could hang a name on her?

“Penny Lane”, by The Beatles, was another March release. Gone were simple lyrics expressing how she loved you or the benefits of twisting and shouting or seeking a hand to hold. There was a quiet rushing in this music, the lyrics taking flight over a sweet, safe, candy-land, sugar-coated metronomic pulse. What they sang was taking priority over how they sang it.

“A Whiter Shade of Pale” by Procol Harum wasn’t really Rock ‘n Roll. Or was it? The sounds were soft, but the visual imagery seemed dangerously decadent.. Cartwheels off the floor? Spinning rooms? Magic ceilings? I had always been comforted by the notion that an Irishman was never really drunk as long as he could hold on to a single blade of grass and not fall off the earth. Procol Harum seemed to be singing about something entirely past that. It must be a Rock ‘n Roll song!

Mt. Holly was about to head into a full new season. The owner had restructured a new nightly rental contract on terms more favorable to the venue and Bob Dell was more than willing to renegotiate. There was plenty to go around. Not just money either.

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