Lionheart Radio, The Lionheart Crew

Bro Radio

I’m in the hot basement. It’s a Fernando’s Hideaway of sorts. The music is playing; the beer is brewing and my alarm clock finally turns itself off. Time to crack open a Brewington Beer.

There was no totem pole. We were both at the bottom but played important roles. Thinking back to how it all started, I wasn’t easy to work with. I felt bad for bro. If only there was some way to help.

Pow Wow, 2016

Don’t judge. I knew Ottis O’Toole a bit. The twenty-seven-year-old with boyish charm and charisma knew how to act on the airwaves, at least at first. Too bad he was stuck in Hellstead Apartments. Unfortunate, an unsatisfying lover, but he was talented. He was highly skilled, but it was not okay.


The Rude Native, Brewington’s classy bistro, not like a coat factory chain, but a converted farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Near Weber’s Warehouse, farmland and dirt. A high-class joint. The bar reeked of urine, yesterday’s farts, and rotten asparagus. The pit of the Karaoke scene.

O’Toole’s rural fanbase wanted the Karaoke performance of a lifetime. Ottis flew in like Clark Kent. God was he stoked. Ottis started with Thriller and he sang his heart out. A real natural, but he wouldn’t stop. O’Toole, a familiar face who was dabbling in drugs, faking suicides for attention, chasing underage girls, not paying his taxes, doing Karaoke shows, singing, and remembering back to all of his past auditions. Karaoke was his superpower. Meditation and skull-fucking were some of his favourite pastimes.

He was supposed to play this guy that was a loser boyfriend, a rock-and-roll guy who is scum, the impetus for new Aztec settlements, stumbling into radio broadcasting. Everybody in Brewington knew that. When it was pitched to him, they said it would be two or three episodes only, then he would be done. Ottis was very intentional about staying up the whole night before and really just come in the studio and be a wreck. But Ottis just wanted to be helpful. Mike Rogers was auditioning for Buck Rogers, a real Mr. Rogers, doing a bang-up job and everything, but buddy wondered what was wrong with Ottis, because he looked terrible. Ottis rambled on about on-air method-acting, conditioning to go full-on Native American. Even bragged about it. Took to a peace pipe. Watched retro baseball. Cleveland’s double-headers. Mike thought he was more of a meth-head. Ottis didn’t care what anyone else thought. He went back home, back to edibles and chewing gum, just to make his breath minty fresh.

Back home, Ottis gave up acting like Mario Juan Valez. A flick of the switch. He became someone else, even branded the name. I never really made it through the first month. A fearless Superman warrior, Daniel Blowden would’ve tied me down to watch Bram Stroker’s Cockula then smash through the door, but bud just stared me straight in the face, wearing beads, necklaces, tribal headgear, feather-work bracelets, and a wampum belt. With a Voodoo mask and a war bonnet tucked in his duffel bag, Ottis had a pretty nice studio set-up in his lush, green apartment, about the size of a coffin. “Daniel, how are you doing?” I said, but bud never answered, bobbing his head from side to side. God, did Ottis ever reek. The music was good, but he smoked one too many super blunts on company time. Smoked pipes and cigars. But that wasn’t the problem. A hard worker who maybe worked a little too hard. In it on his own. Ottis oozed a bit too much confidence. Thought he could do it alone. He told me to get the fuck out of his apartment.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, he came alive. His bobbling head swayed faster. It looked like he didn’t want me to go. He mumbled and said, “Mr. Show-Business, I don’t mean to be insensitive.” Bro shouted, “You know what drives me out of my fucking mind? Fucking grocery stores are all the same. None of them have American cereal, protein shakes or bars or the good stuff you can find if you go to Buffalo. I fucking hate cotton candy and Disney World.”

Ottis was jumping up and down like a four-year-old. He had no shame. He had to stop. I felt agitated and wanted to go. “I wouldn’t fuck you with Bea Arthur’s dick,” I muttered, lowering my head, walking over towards door.

“You really nailed me, you prick,” he said. I sighed then shook my head; pissed with the leaker, I closed the door behind me. It wasn’t fair, nothing was, but my job was done. I had to move on. He needed professional help.

Daniel’s Studio, 2019

The plague was tough. Ottis took fate into his own hands. I’m not like Ottis playing Daniel, a native brother from the gutter. But I remember what it felt like to live without hope in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wanted to reach out. WRICH wanted to help. But I had to end it. The last pay bought Ottis a squeegee, a “cool” window cleaning tool. Ottis even bought a fly swatter. They considered his radio performances and car detailing non-essential. Sure, he’d return to Karaoke, dishwashing, and selling limousines in his spare time, but from grungy pants and a shirt to Native tribal gear, bro made virtually nothing for all of the menial jobs. The shows turned kookier and more abstract before I let him go. Bro thought Kevin Costner was the last action hero. It tickled O’Toole to share the shows online.

The Daniel Blowden Show #1
The Daniel Blowden Show #2
The Daniel Blowden Show #3
The Daniel Blowden Show #4
The Daniel Blowden Show #5
The Daniel Blowden Show #6
The Daniel Blowden Show #7
The Daniel Blowden Show #8
The Daniel Blowden Show #9
The Daniel Blowden Show #10
The Daniel Blowden Show #11 (Special Breakdown)
The Daniel Blowden Show #12
The Daniel Blowden Show #13

2 thoughts on “Bro Radio”

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