Excerpt from "Domino on Your Radio: Unlikely Tales From an Introvert on the Air"



Enjoy this free excerpt of:

"Domino on Your Radio: Unlikely Tales From an Introvert on the Air"
by Dom Testa

 

Chapter 1

 

 

When I posted those two sentences on social media, I expected perhaps a handful of people to say, “Yeah, me too!” The rest of the universe would ignore it.

Instead, a swarm of introverts emerged from the shadows. People who’d never commented on a single post of mine had suddenly, it seemed, been given permission to raise their hand. Not only did they offer the “Me too!” I’d expected, but they also asked the same question I’d wondered my whole life:

Why? Why do we pretend?

One of our basic human instincts is a desire to be accepted, which can probably be traced to our ancient cave-dwelling ancestors. If you weren’t accepted—thrown out of the tribe long before it became a kitschy angle on reality TV—you likely starved. So you could say we’re born with a primal need to be part of the crowd, whether it fits our personality or not.

Could it be that simple?

I’m not a doctor, I haven’t sponsored a research project, and I don’t claim to be an expert on the subject. Hell, I’m a college dropout. All I can do is speculate based on personal experience. If it resonates with you and we both agree it sounds right, that’s good enough for me.

Maybe by the time we reach the final chapter, we’ll both have the answer.

Everything you’ll explore within these pages is based on nearly 50 years of hosting radio shows, including more than 30 years on a top-rated morning show in a large, highly competitive market where the stakes are high and the pressure is intense. You’d think an introvert would shrink away from it all.

Somehow, it works for me. For years, I wondered how it could.

Most people misunderstand how an introverted mind even works. I did, too, for the longest time. Along with that, factor in the hard truth that not only are no two people alike, but no two introverts will blunder through this world in the same manner. Carl Jung believed each person fell somewhere along the introvert/extrovert spectrum, but that’s a long, complex spectrum. It’s impossible to fit all of us into one box, and one-size-fits-all definitions certainly don’t apply here. Most of us—introverts and extroverts alike—cruise through life in search of something akin to happiness, which also changes from person to person and from day to day.

I’ve often wondered how similar other introverts might be to me. Are there many who would observe the manner in which I think or act and see a reflection of themselves? And really, how did an introvert ever get into radio broadcasting—and make a long, successful career of it—in the first place?

 

I imagine extroverts yawning right now and either closing this book for good or clicking out of the free online preview. I wouldn’t. Even if you’re an extrovert by nature, you have to walk amongst the rest of us: the quiet, sometimes unassuming society of introverts.

And the numbers suggest we’re not some isolated, minor tribe. Estimates say at least 30% of the population are like me, and it’s possible the number is as high as 50%. So, if you wanna better understand—and get along with—a third to a half of the public, stick around.

Plus, this is not a book on psychology. It’s more like a travelogue of sorts, documenting the highs, the lows, and the damned funny escapades of one man’s rollicking roll through the world of radio. I’ve been lucky at times, I’ve definitely been in the right place at the right time, and I’ve just happened to talk to the right people on the days I needed to.

It’s a book that shows how I throw the Switch. I capitalize it—and it’ll pop up from time to time over the next thirty chapters—because I insist it’s a real thing. I have a mystical Switch in my head that transforms me from the guy who prefers a quiet room with a book or a jigsaw puzzle into the guy who will get on stage in front of thousands of people and clown around with them.

I’d love to know what that Switch is all about, how it works, and whether it’s simply some elaborate defense mechanism. I use the damned thing and yet it’s still a big mystery to me. You may have a Switch, too, and perhaps you’ve wondered about its powers, as well.

The interesting thing about that Switch, though, is that it’s not unlike the dome light in older-model cars: Leave it on too long and your battery slowly drains and dies. I have a battery reserve that temporarily powers the inner machine allowing me to mimic the behavior of an extrovert.

I’m fine at parties for the first hour. I can talk to small groups of people and even tell reasonably interesting stories that hold someone’s attention. But then it becomes midnight at Cinderella’s ball. Ninety minutes into the party, you’ll find me over in a corner of the room, examining the host’s bookshelves, probably wondering how I can escape without appearing rude.

Some of my personal relationships have been, um, challenging because I’ve been paired with extroverts, people who can be the life of the party for five hours if there are enough guests and a sufficient supply of wine. More than once on a drive home I’ve heard, “Why were you so quiet tonight? My friends thought you were bored or unhappy.”

No. It’s simply that the battery powering my happy face runs down faster than an iPad with a kid playing Minecraft. I sometimes wonder if introverts would be best served with one of those battery bars you see at the top of your phone—but placed on our foreheads. With one glance, people at a party would know that Dom is down to 12%, so he’ll probably be saying his goodbyes soon.

So, recognizing that even the Switch has a power limit, how do I—and a bunch of other introverted performers, from music to movies to comedy—manage to spend hours doing what we do? How can I run out of juice at a social gathering but invest four solid hours on the air each weekday morning, with the energy meter pegged to the top the whole time?

It just seems weird.

 

The first clue might’ve appeared my junior year of high school.

I grew up a military brat, moving every two years until just before entering high school. In a way, it was an absolute dream for me. Granted, some kids who grew up that way hated it. I loved it. Not only did it allow me to see the world, but it gave me permission to be off by myself. When you’re the new kid at school all the time, nobody expects anything from you. Adolescents are basically asses anyway—except yours, of course—and the new kid is like fresh meat for all the little monsters to feed on.

My sanctuary was the library. By the third grade, I was a reading fiend, devouring all the Hardy Boys books on the shelves and even sneaking into my sister’s room and borrowing her Nancy Drew books. In the seventh grade, I discovered more advanced fiction, including science fiction and action/adventure novels. It was all escapism, you could say, a vehicle for an introverted kid to live vicariously through people who lived on the edge.

In middle school, I funneled that love of books into a love of writing. Lots of short stories, even a few aborted attempts at novels. I think my first pitiful attempt at a full novel was a piece of garbage titled Those Who Help Themselves. Don’t ask me what it was about, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t even know the answer back when I was writing it. I was just spewing words. It was a way to channel the various ideas generated by hours and hours spent alone into my earliest attempts at creating my own imaginary world.

Don’t think for a moment I spent all my time cooped up in a room, reading other people’s fantasies. I was outside for hours each day, exploring, observing, and—this is key—exercising my mind’s creative muscle. Just ask Donna, the sister I mentioned: she’ll confirm that I was pretty much a weird kid. That weirdness paid off in the long run. I think it usually does. (Shout-out to all my fellow weirdos.)

I wonder sometimes if my penchant for writing today in multiple genres under a plethora of pen names stems from the fact that my young brain was open to everything because my mouth was closed. I not only filled my mind with imaginary settings and people, but I sampled different types of books. Those experiences led me to experiment with different styles of writing, and my adult brain now wants desperately to organize them into neat little categories. In this case, pen names. As of this writing, I’ve published more than two dozen books under five separate names.

In my junior year of high school, just a week into the school year, I auditioned for a school play. You have to know this was way out of my comfort zone. But it was a creative outlet, and I was starving for those. I got the role of Valentine in Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night.”

It’s a small part, only a few lines, but that was a perfect way to dip my toe into the performance pool.

Two weeks after getting that role, I was selected for a different part:

Disc jockey on a commercial radio station.

All this evidence suggests I began coming out of my shell right after my 16^th birthday. Still an introvert, but an introvert who’d finally found a way to make sense of the world on my own terms. I could take the explosion of creative energy that bounded around inside my head and give it voice.

And, if you think about it, the manner in which I chose to do it—both with the play and with the radio job—meant I was in disguise. Because the tights and funny hat I wore in the Bard’s play essentially camouflaged me, and, with the bright stage lights, you never really saw much of the audience, anyway. With the radio show, I was alone in a small studio, talking to one person at a time. (More on that in a moment.)

Both avenues were perfect for an introvert pretending to be an extrovert.

 

This is probably a good time to point out that being an introvert and being shy are not the same thing. You can be both, of course, but they’re different, and there are plenty of introverts who are not shy at all. Likewise, there are some extroverts who are shy.

The best way I’ve heard it explained—in very simplistic terms—is that the difference between an introvert and an extrovert is where they derive their energy. Are you driven internally, or are you powered externally? One is not better than the other; they’re just different.

I most definitely get my power from within. I have no problem being alone, and it’s why I can get overwhelmed in large social situations when I don’t throw the Switch. Several good friends of mine are prime examples of extroverts. They get their power from the people around them. It’s like they’ve plugged a power cord into the surrounding crowd and it feeds them.

Those friends have expressed hatred for being alone. They say it drives them crazy; they have to be around people.

Radio works for me because, although it’s a medium where I address anywhere from thousands to hundreds of thousands of people on any given day, it’s still a one-to-one conversation. Show me a radio host or podcaster who says, “Hello all of you out there!” and I’ll show you a total amateur. You are never, ever, talking to a large group of people. You’re talking to ONE person. Just one.

Most people are listening alone. You’ll rarely find a large group of people clustered around a radio. It’s generally one person in their car, driving to work or to the store. With a podcast, I’ll bet 95% of them are listened to by one person. We may be broadcasting in one sense, but we’re really just solocasting.

On top of that, the amateur broadcaster/podcaster sacrifices the most potent thing they have going for them when they say, “Hey, all of you—” They’re neglecting the power of personal communication.

When I open the microphone, I don’t say, “All of you will have a chance to win concert tickets before 8 a.m.” Instead, I say, “YOU will have a chance to win.” I’m talking to that one person in the car. Or the one person who’s listening on headphones on the treadmill. I’m talking one-on-one. “If you’re going to the festival this weekend, I wouldn’t bother with parking downtown if I were you. It’s a disaster.” That speaks to each individual listener like a friend.

It’s how I survive large social groups: I find one person and move off to the side, where I can engage with them, and just them. I’m the world’s worst person at small talk, which is what you find at a party. But get me alone and I can do quite well.

What it boils down to is this: I suck at small talk, but I’m pretty good at big talk, which I define as really talking to someone. That’s best accomplished one-on-one. Cut out the inane bullshit, which is what people do in groups. It drains my battery.

Radio is one-on-one, when it’s done right. It’s me talking to you. Not to the crowd.

 

I think this is how introverts manage and, ultimately, succeed in the performing arts. I won’t bore you with a list of movie and Broadway stars who are noted introverts, as well as a stunning number of stand-up comics—but the list is long. It might surprise the hell out of you.

But it shouldn’t. Introverts often need an outlet. We spend so much time in our own heads, and we workshop a lot of thoughts and ideas that are longing to be test-driven. Some of us write books. Some write poetry. Some create music, or dance, or paintings. Others get on stage and tell jokes. We crave the outlet that will let that creative energy drain out of our skulls. Believe me, there’s always much more to seep in and take its place.

 

My brain is also just wired in an odd way.

I have a characteristic known as mixed-handedness. Sometimes it’s called cross-dominance. It means I’m not ambidextrous, where you do things equally well with either hand. Instead, my dominant side depends on what activity I’m doing.

I throw left-handed. I write right-handed. I kick left-footed. I play tennis and golf right-handed. I shoot pool left-handed. I eat right-handed. I bowl left-handed.

See what I mean? Totally mixed up.

I’ve read studies that claim this trait often leads to learning issues for kids. Some believe it’s a sign the brain isn’t developing fully, and some young people struggle.

I never had problems with that. While some mixed-handed kids might have a hard time in school, I excelled. And it certainly hasn’t hamstrung my creative abilities.

However, I can’t help but wonder if it manifests as yet another form of using “both sides”: Introversion and Public Performing. For that matter, it might explain a lot of other goofy things about my personality. Screw this notion that we only use 10% of our brains—that’s absolute bullshit by the way; we use the entire enchilada—I think at times my brain is turbo-charged, and that’s not always a blessing. Just ask me at 1 a.m. when I can’t shut off my thoughts and go to sleep. It ain’t such a good thing then.

 

Radio has done a bang-up job in giving me an opportunity to express ideas and feelings. It has helped me navigate tragedy, on both a personal level—like the loss of my parents—or with large-scale tragedies, like 9-11. It has provided me with a good life and some remarkable experiences. You’ll read about some of the best, the worst, and the most bizarre.

I’ll warn you in advance, this book does not run in a linear fashion, from early days to more recent history. Instead, it’s set up exactly the way my brain works, and maybe the way yours works, too: jumping from one point to another, no rhyme or reason, almost like stream of consciousness.

I have, however, segmented the book into funny stories, followed by personal stories, and finally my blunt observations on the radio industry. Emphasis on the blunt.

But every piece is part of the long thread that strings together my life in radio, and I’ll start with the interview for my first job, at age 16. It blossomed into a career that has allowed me to laugh, over and over again. It’s where I perfected the Switch.

And it’s taught me all sorts of life lessons. Along with writing, it’s the best damned job in the world.

With this book, I’m combining both jobs.

*  *  *

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