Day One at the Jive 95 - KSAN San Francisco

The contrast between working conditions at KRE and those of the typical San Francisco radio station in the mid 1970’s was stunning. KRE’s door was never locked. Messages were written on a pad of pink “While You’re Were Out” paper and stuck on a spindle on the front desk. We replaced the typewriter ribbons ourselves and there was no hot running water in either of the bathrooms. Our General Manager and sales staff negotiated trade agreements with local restaurants - ads for food, basically - so a big perk was periodically getting to feast on the salad bar at the El Cerrito Station. 
For four years at KRE, I honed my skills and periodically interviewed for jobs in the city at radio stations that offered far more in the way of decor, professionalism, and salary but a lot less in terms of soul. And then I heard about an opening at KSAN, the legendary rock station whose claim to fame was not only the music but the news. It’s where every young person in the San Francisco Bay Area turned for the truth and the KSAN News delivered. There were no stories from the police blotter; that was better left to local television. The KSAN News team curated the news, focusing on issues that had impact, often covering only a few stories in a five minute newscast when there was a lot to say. Rather than reading from a script as was and continues to be standard practice in radio news, KSAN news people told you the news. They spoke directly to you - one on one - often bantering back and forth with a co-anchor or even the on air jock.
My first day of work on the KSAN News team was a bit traumatic. I arrived at 345 Sansome Street with some anxiety, having never anchored news before. I went directly to the newsroom and found some piles of torn wire copy from the Associated Press and Reuters news services and no sign of a human being. 
“Excuse me, I’m Joanne Rosenzweig, the new news person. Do you know where Dave McQueen is?” I asked someone who happened to be passing by in the hallway. Dave was the News Director and my co-anchor for the noon news.
The guy in the hall looked at his watch and grinned. “Oh, Dave’s probably asleep on the couch in the front office. That’s generally where he is between nine and noon.”
I gulped and slowly nodded, wondering how I was supposed to prepare the newscast without any direction. OK, I thought, I’ll just read over all of the copy that he pulled for the morning drive casts and continue to rip updates from the wires.
An hour passed and my heart rate was gradually increasing, as I ran back and forth from the newsroom to the tiny area that housed the wire machines – checking on updates from Associated Press and Reuters. What the hell? Why isn’t he here to welcome me and tell me what he expects? Isn’t there any training?
I’d been hired by Abby Melamed, the Program Director, and she was out at a meeting. I went into the Production Room and asked Rick, the Production Director, what he thought I should do.
“It’s after eleven-thirty,” Rick said, sympathetically, “I think it’s fine to go wake him up and tell him you need to figure out the noon news.”
“He won’t be angry?” I asked, hoping that Rick would offer to go wake him up and save me the awkwardness and potential humiliation.
Rick shrugged and smiled. I had the immediate sense that Rick would be a friend and ally, even though he wasn’t making the morning any easier for me.
With trepidation, I began walking toward the front office. Peeking in, I saw Dave, asleep on a couch, his long brown hair strewn across a throw pillow. 
“Dave,” I whispered. No response. “Dave,” I said, a bit louder this time. 
Still no sign of life. I held my breath for a moment, wondering what I’d done to deserve this, and said in a somewhat louder voice “David!”  That did it. He moved, opened one eye, and started to stretch. And then he continued to stretch until, gradually, he began to sit up. Then, he grabbed a hair brush from the table and began to brush his nearly waist-length brown hair, bending his head down and flipping all of his locks back over his head, brushing it from the other side. Was this his ritual upon waking up? He didn’t seem like a fastidious person and yet this hair brushing seemed to go on and on. I stared, in disbelief, and started babbling.
“I cleared the wires and read over what you’d done in the morning newscasts, but I’m not sure how you want to handle the noon. It’s 11:40 now, maybe later, and I’m starting to get concerned that we need time to prep.”
Dave continued to brush his hair, not yet responding to my semi-panicked diatribe.
When he finished stretching, yawning and brushing, he walked out of the room and down the long hall to the newsroom. I followed wondering how, in hell, we were going to properly prepare to deliver a newscast. Maybe my notion of “properly” was about to go out the window. Man, did I have a lot to learn. Upon entering his sanctuary - a small room with a