WBLM had a vide variety of DJs and personalities spinning records:
There was this guy who did overnights who called himself the Red-Eyed-Rock-o-holic. I think he called himself that because he smoked a lot of marijuana at night.
There was this flaming gay guy called the Cosmic Muffin, and he did these live to tape horoscope-type readings where he’d rank your day based on stupid things like the mercury retrograde and whether or not you were out, at home, or working.
Since no one in Maine was going to syndicate Howard Stern, the pride of WBLM was its morning crew – a comedy team which consisted of a guy who called himself “the Cap’n” and his “whacky” co-host, a “whacky” guy named Mark Persky. And no offense to Mark Persky, but he was about as whacky as a corny high school teacher. And Mark Persky fancied himself a celebrity so it was always exciting when you’d see him at the local Chinese restaurant talking out loud and making a scene.
Anyway, WBLM was great for two reasons. The first reason is I used to sleep with the radio on at night and I would always wake up around 3:30 am when the Red-Eyed-Rock-o-holic played “Werewolves of London” by Warren Zevon.
The other thing I loved about WBLM was calling in the morning show to win the various prizes and giveaways that the Cap’n and Mark Persky had to offer. I mastered my call-in technique and was able to win a number of prizes including:
A “Batman the Animated Series” lithograph:
A “Star Trek” Prize Package which included several pins and key chains from “Star Trek: the Motion Picture” -- a movie which was already fifteen years old when I started calling the Blimp, a Mr. Spock belt buckle, and a coffee mug which featured a De-cloaking Klingon Bird of Prey firing photon torpedoes at the Enterprise whenever you poured hot water into it.
But I think my crowning achievement came when I won tickets to see the WWF. And for young readers out there – the WWF is what the wrestlers used to call themselves before they let a bunch of pussy panda bears push them around and change their name to the WWE…
Anyway my friends and I were all fans of wrestling and I was often disappointed because my dad had reneged several times on taking me to see the WWF after promising me he would, so winning WWF tickets was like Charlie finding the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory – except the Oompah Loompahs smack themselves over the head with folding chairs instead of making candy.
I had an amazing time at the wrestling event. Everything was perfect except for one thing. As part of the prize I was supposed to win a ripped Hulk Hogan t-shirt.
I never got a stupid t-shirt in the mail. The guy running the ticket booth at the Cumberland County Civic Center didn’t know what I was talking about. And Hulk Hogan never threw me his sweaty t-shirt after he ripped it off.
What the fuck???
This is bullshit. I waited by the phone for over an hour to win that stupid WWF prize package and I want my fucking Hulk Hogan t-shirt. So if anyone out there knows the general manager at WBLM, Hulk Hogan, Jim McMahon, the Cap’n and Mark Persky, or the Cosmic Muffin, I’m begging you, please, call them up and get me my t-shirt.