Sunlight in the foothills, a rare record on the desk, and a voice that still echoes through our studio—this one brings together sport, memory, and music in a way that feels both tender and alive. I’m off the air until January 5, but the stories didn’t take a vacation, and neither did the community that keeps this show beating.

We start with the shockwaves rolling through the NFC West: the Rams slipping from top-seed contention, the 49ers lighting up the scoreboard despite turnovers, and Bears fans daring to feel proud again. Football is more than standings; it’s a mirror for resilience, timing, and how quickly fortunes can turn. From there, we lean into something more personal—the life and legacy of Mark “The Voice Guy,” a friend who turned our commercial breaks into moments listeners waited for. His liners were quick, clever, and oddly comforting: a tiny lift after a long day. When cancer closed in, the studio became his escape. I drove him in, dropped the Mustang top, and we cranked music because joy is a medicine you take with both hands.

Community came through at American River Flooring, where we rallied for Mark and for Kendall, our longtime technical producer who faced leukemia and fought her way back. The fundraiser was messy, loud, and beautiful—exactly how real help looks. Mark turned even the hiccups into jokes, the way radio pros do, and reminded us that humor and heart can share the same mic. To honor that spirit, I dug into my rare 45s and landed on the Isley Brothers’ Spill the Wine, a cover that proves a great song can be reborn without losing its soul. The Isleys’ run of fearless covers—Ohio, Fire and Rain, Lay Lady Lay, Love the One You’re With—felt like the perfect soundtrack for memory and momentum.

If you’ve ever needed a voice to get you through a tough night or a song to make the room feel warmer, you’ll feel right at home here. Join me for football sparks, a friend remembered, and a groove that still turns the page. If you enjoyed this, subscribe, share it with a friend, and leave a review—then tell me your favorite cover song and why it still moves you.

A rainy Friday, a Rams OT gut punch, and a studio window looking out on Northern California set the scene for a deeply personal ride through memory. We open our inbox, thank the community, and then step into a year that changed everything: 1973. Not as trivia, but as survival—how AM radio turned courtrooms, bus rides, and seventh‑grade dances into moments you can still touch.

I share what episodic memory feels like in real life: the brain welding a hook or harmony to weather, faces, and fear. From Stealers Wheel’s “Stuck in the Middle” mirroring a kid torn between parents to Elton John’s “Daniel” becoming a brother’s quiet anthem, these songs don’t just play; they retrieve. We trade studio lore—Carly Simon inviting Mick Jagger onto “You’re So Vain” while the Stones track “Angie” nearby—and those unforgettable radio connectors: Gladys Knight’s “Midnight Train to Georgia,” Vicki Lawrence turning TV fame into a chart storm, Doctor Hook winking their way onto the Rolling Stone cover, and John Denver’s clean-air balm, “Rocky Mountain High.”

There’s humor and warmth—fruitcake redeemed, soundboard buttons rediscovered, a birthday serenade for a loyal listener—but the heartbeat is how music carries us. “Me and Mrs. Jones,” “Drift Away,” “Brother Louie,” “Touch Me in the Morning,” Grand Funk’s cowbell groove—each one maps to a hallway, a crush, a brave face, a way to get through. By the time we reach Eddie Kendricks and “keep on truckin’,” it’s clear: 1973 might be the greatest Top 40 year not just for charts, but for how it still helps us remember, feel, and move forward.

If this story stirs your own, press play and travel with us. Then share the song that takes you back. Subscribe, leave a review, and send your track—what single unlocks your past?

A gray morning breaks into sunlight and we follow it straight into the studio, where a voice Sacramento once trusted at 2 a.m. takes us behind the glass. Stephanie “Dreamweaver” Dorn built a legendary radio segment by doing something deceptively simple and wildly difficult: listening to strangers, interpreting their dreams in real time, and finding words that could steady a shaking hand. Two calls defined what was at stake. One man was attempting suicide on the line. Another was driving with a gun to confront his pregnant ex. Stephanie kept them talking, gathered enough detail for help, and then did the slower work—guiding one caller into a new path he later called from Afghanistan to describe. Radio wasn’t background noise that night. It was a lifeline.

We open up the toolkit that made those moments possible. Stephanie explains how the right hemisphere of the brain crafts symbols that slip past the left’s censors, why recurring images like flying, falling, giving birth, and getting stuck appear across lives, and how attention itself strengthens dream recall. You’ll hear how a “two mouths” dream flagged a double talker, why “quicksand” often means the work is a process not an event, and how a launch-and-parachute dream reveals smart risk-taking and an inner safety net. There’s even a historical detour: nineteen Titanic passengers canceled after dreams or premonitions of an iceberg. Rare or not, those stories remind us to listen when our inner alarms go off.

We also celebrate the messy, musical art of live radio. The “Dreamweaver” name was born on air when a host grabbed the Dream Weaver cart because he forgot her name—and the phone lines lit up. From yelling “pizza” to get into a shared studio, to framing each caller’s story with the perfect song, to remembering the quick wit of Chris Collins, this is a love letter to the era when listeners sat in their garages just to hear how a call would end. Press play for the saves, stay for the symbols, and leave with a sharper ear for your own night stories.

If this resonated, follow the show, share it with a friend who keeps a dream journal, and drop a review with your strangest recurring dream—we might feature it next time.