Get To Know Us: K-101.7’s Dave In The Cave!

In an ongoing effort to let you, the K-101.7 Faithful, in on what makes your favorite air personalities who they are, we present to you another installment of GET TO KNOW US! On the docket today, Dave In The Cave, that girly voiced 48 year old rapscallion from our Poor Excuse For a Morning Show (c). What does he like? Where does he like it? And Why? READ ON!

Hello, there, dave In The cave here. Supposed to tell you about the things I like, the things that you'd put in an equation along the lines of X + record collection = Dave. Tough one. So many things go into the stew that is me. Tough to find a starting point. I guess I'd start at Record Stores and Other People's Record Collections.

I guess it goes back to around 1978. There was a downmarket, tacky dusty 1970's catchall department store here in Copperas Cove called Gibson's. I don't remember anything about the place except that the Sunday Blue Laws would force them to rope off and actually cover in plastic sheets sections you couldn't buy stuff from on that day. That's okay, however, because the only section I cared about was the album area, a little section in the middle of the store with these bins of tightly packed records, none of which we'd ever buy, cos we were poor and mom was cheap. So I'd gravitate right to that section, spend all my time there, flipping through those tightly packed records, wondering at what wonders lay behind those garish 1970's rock albums. I mean trying not being eleven, creative and in 1978 and not spend all your time staring at this:

Life moved on. Gibson's went away. Became a mini-storage, as does everything down here that fails to make a profit (I'm surprised they haven't turned me into a mini-storage.) The love for music, and specially the album format, stayed. More interesting than record stores, for me, anyway, are other people's record collections. That's where you can really get to know a person, I find. From my Uncle Mike's old gathering of EVERY MOODY BLUES ALBUM EVER to that young married doctor who was a friend of a friend back in the early nineties, whose record collection consisted of Bolton, Sound Machine, Streisand And Loggins, which sounds like a gay Jewish law firm but isn't. The wall of c.d.s in that strip I tried out for but failed at in the mid-nineties told it's tale, with Motely Crue and Def Leppard jostling for room with  Depeche Mode and The Divinyls. And of course my parent's amalgamation of Marty Robbins, Merle Haggard keeping company with movie musical soundtracks like West Side Story and Camelot. That would be Haggard, Richard Harris and Rex Harrison hanging out together, ladies and gentleman. Imagine that kegger. So, given all that, when I stare at my own wall of stuff, I wonder what it says about me.

It probably says I'm crazy. or a d.j.

Okay, moving on.

I am a flaming liberal. Omigawd, yes. For some reason, however, I have a taste for trashy action movies. Bizarre, I know. I think it started with my early affection for all things seventies Eastwood and Bronson. Those two dudes were on an absolute tear through that decade. And both would wash up onto the shore of the eighties struggling to adapt, Eastwood with more success than Chuckles Bronson. With Eastwood it stretches back to the widescreen dirt and flies and laughing swarthy face bandit Italian westerns of the sixties. With Bronson, stone faced, craggy, odd clipped cadence and all, it also starts there with Once Upon a Time In The West and stretches through such masterpieces as The Mechanic (assassin) Breakout (helicopter pilot) and, of course, Mr. Majestyk (melon farmer). Ah, Bronson.

But the action movie love doesn't stop there. Oh no. When the family's away on a Friday night, there's nothing better than grabbing the giant bottle of Topo Chico, tossing a couple of Hungry man dinners in the oven (the beer battered chicken is a favorite) (with the turkey dinner running a close second) and knocking it all back to the sights and sounds of the world's most under-appreciated talents, your Seagal's, Your Jean-Claude's, kick, punch and mangle the English language.

You think you only learn film making from watching good movies?

Unfortunately, nobody in the movie yells out, "YOU'RE A LONE WOLF, MCQUADE!" Though they do bury him in his truck, and he does drive out of said grave, but not before pouring a can of Pearl all over himself.

All right, now I know what I'm doing for the rest of the night. Thanks for you rtime, K-101.7 Faithful. Next time on GET TO KNOW ME, we'll talk about my love of 1970's Pam Grier, Truck Turner and ice dancing. Stay tuned, kids.

And, since you've mad it all the way down here, why not check out this thing we did here at the K-101.7 Visual Production Studios: