The launch of Artemis II was a really big deal in Florida where I live. After all, it was the first crewed flight beyond low Earth orbit since the Apollo program before most of us were even in high school.

They estimate that almost half a million folks watched in person from the Space Coast. The launch could be seen in backyards and roadways all the way from Jacksonville to West Palm Beach and throughout Central Florida.

Everyone was talking about it. (The photo is of a rocket launch seen from my front yard).

Rarely do you hear guys brag about their urologist. Based upon the bumpy road I’ve had the last several years in that medical department I’m eager to brag on mine. (I’m fine now. Thanks for asking).

My recent annual exam went swimmingly wrapping up with “the glove.” In the man-to-man chit chat that ensued I awkwardly asked, “How can you do this procedure every day of your life?”

Rumor has it that there are more “religious” radio stations than any other format category. Rumor also whispers that those religious stations have fewer listeners than any other. I don’t like those rumors.

But having been involved in the CCM format for more than 25 years I suggest that there is something we might learn from Easter.

What do you see in this picture?

Some will just see four guys and a lady standing on the curb. Not a very compelling picture, either, with the faces of the lady and the guy in the blue jean jacket not even visible.

Others will recognize those four lads as the Beatles, but don’t realize the photo’s significance without the context of when it was taken.

Here’s a clever tip that can help you figure out a couple of things that are really important.

1. WHY. Why is this something on your station in the first place? Maybe it’s a piece of content from your morning show team. Perhaps it’s a promotion or marketing campaign. A news story, a weather forecast. You get the point.
2. HOW. Is it done in a way that effectively communicates the moral of the story? Bad stations choose content poorly. Great stations do content that reveals, even in subtle and indirect ways, the purpose of the station.

I’ve heard of an author that is willing to sit and watch his books go unsold because apparently for him that is better than changing the essence of what he’s written.

Seth Godin in his book “Linchpin” points out the author’s passion is for his craft, but has no real passion for spreading his ideas. “And if his ideas don’t spread, no gift is received. When an artist stops work before his art is received, his work is unfulfilled.”

These concepts are paradoxical.

One of my first programming mentors was a man that had learned from Bill Drake, the man that invented Top 40 radio. Howard had worked in New Orleans, New York, and San Francisco. I had worked in Abilene. There was a knowledge gap between us that was as big as the sky in West Texas. I knew I needed to pay attention.

Howard preached to his young air staff, “Do something.” He knew that people listened to the radio station for an experience. He would not allow us to phone it in nor waste a break.

A side note, I would often do things on the air just to get a reaction from Howard.

Remember back in school when you wanted that girl or boy to like you? I bet a specific name immediately pops to mind. (That’s for you, Marlene).

If I could just be taller, thinner, have prettier hair or clearer skin.
If I could just be smarter, run faster, or make the other kids laugh.
Then. Then maybe she’d love me.

Reckon’ I hear the term “artificial” dozens of times every day. I understand why.

Artificial intelligence is the shiny new object that catches our eye, and that’s probably legit. In the next season AI will impact our lives in ways we can’t even imagine. Many of those ways will likely be positive. Some may not.

But as programmers it is important that we not allow the shiny new object to obscure what listeners really value.

That is authenticity.

We can all remember the first time someone said, “I love you.” (We can also painfully remember when someone didn’t).

We are created to be known. From the early playground experiences of “Mommy, mommy, look at me,” to the moment you discovered the pretty girl knew your name.