Easter Sunday morning. I was just back in town (as of about 5 AM) but I'd promised to do the jazz show for our radio station - holidays were the only time I would have the jazz shift, since none of the regular hosts wanted to come in. My girlfriend's clock alarm gently went off - I'd set it for 9 AM, giving me enough time to bike home, shower, figure out what records to bring with me (since the station's record library was woefully lame when it came to jazz), load them into a milk crate, then drive to campus, where the station was; if the jock who did the 9-to-noon shift remembered to keep the outside door cracked open (and this was not always guaranteed), then I could rush in just in time for the noontime start of my show.

I reached over my girlfriend and hit the snooze button.

The alarm went off again; I shut it off, quietly kissed my girlfriend on her back, and started to get out of bed. I had one foot on the floor. She, awake as it turns out, grabbed my t-shirt, making further progress impossible.

"I haven't seen you in ten days", she said.

"But I'll be back around four o'clock, OK?"

"No." She tugged on my shirt, and I lost my footing and fell back into bed.

"I'm signed up for the shift. I gotta go."

"You've got three hours."

"It's not like the station's next door."

She climbed on top of me, and resistance is futile at that point, isn't it?

"Grrrrrowwwl!", I growled.

I stuck around...

Around 11 AM, I borrowed her car, drove home as quickly as I could, grabbed a bunch of LPs from the somewhat-alphabetized collection, and headed to the station, arriving with about five minutes to spare. Luckily, the nine o'clock guy was just opening the door, saving me the time and trouble of running to a pay phone to harangue him.

"Hello! Welcome to this Easter Sunday version of the Jazz Show. We'll be featuring a lot of John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman on this extra-special edition..."

The Clash, Cocteau Twins, and Cream LPs were not utilized.

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