Delilah, Love Someone Tonight

Recently the antenna on the Volvo broke, so I've struggled to find a radio station that gets reception. I normally just listen to NPR, but my NPR station is often fuzzy now, especially at night for some reason. I don't have many CDs, and I've tired of the American Idol CD I made.

So I've returned to an old favorite, on the Savannah station 98.7 (The River!). It's Delilah. It's horrible and I hate it, but really I love it. I hate her but really I might love her. I hate the people who call in and who email her, and I really do hate them.

In case you haven't had the pleasure of listening to Delilah, let me educate you. Her show is kind of a cross between Dear Abby and the worst dedication show you've ever heard. She has a voice like butter, she's deeply compassionate, and she plays horrible soft rock hits that I love. Like so many things in my life, her show is simultaneously the best and the worst thing that's ever existed (please excuse my love of hyperbole).


The greatest part of Delilah's show is the strange and lonely people who call her. So many times I've heard them say that they listen to her every night in their living room. WHAT? Is this the 1930s? Don't these people have TV? Computers? I just picture these callers, surrounded by cats, with some old-fashioned radio, sitting in a torn up recliner in a dark and dingy living room.

What I can't seem to understand is why these people turn to Delilah to talk to when they want to share their joys and their sorrows. Why her? Don't they have friends, family, or therapists? I think they need to find some. And just to be clear, Delilah can give some terrible advice. She's no Dear Prudence.

When I first moved to Savannah I listened to Delilah more than I would care to admit (but always in the car--never at home!). Her show runs from 8 p.m. to midnight, and I would listen when I was returning home from work or on my way to visit Matt. Most of the time I just mocked the callers and Delilah, but occasionally the show and the stories shared would touch my heart. On more than one occasion I arrived home sobbing about whatever sad story I had just heard.

My friend Tori and I used to play a game where we would listen to the caller's story and try to predict what song Delilah would play. Often these songs are highly inappropriate (like people who play that John Mayer "Daughters" song at their wedding), but the title seems to fit. Usually the winning songs were by Whitney Houston or Boyz 2 Men, and they had to be at least 10 years old.

Last night Matt listened to Delilah with me. This girl called in and was talking about how her father just died and how she was getting married in a month. Delilah suggested that she move the wedding date, but the girl said it wasn't a possibility. They continued to talk; the girl was on the verge of tears the whole time, and Delilah offered her sympathy. Matt and I talked about how depressing this show was, but quickly tried to guess the song Delilah would play. My guess: "Butterfly Kisses." Matt's guess: "Stairway to Heaven." He doesn't really understand Delilah just yet.

Delilah played Madonna's "This Used to Be My Playground." We were both wrong.