Mike Matson

About three o’clock in the morning, I would get hungry. Denny’s lit up the night right across the street, comfort food calling my name.   At 21, I found myself spinning the Adult Contemporary hits overnight on the top-rated radio station in Wichita. Barbra Streisand lamenting that Neil Diamond no longer brings her flowers.   A year earlier, I dropped everything to follow a girl to the Twin Cities. While there, I enrolled in a broadcasting technical school. Nine months later,

Every year for the last generation, my wife and I would cleave a few days from our calendars, pack the purple polos/pullovers and meet up with longtime friends at the Big 12 men’s basketball tournament. We’ve been doing it since the Wooldridge era. Dallas, Oklahoma City, the last several years in Kansas City.     Not this year.   It was a joint decision, made through like-minded osmosis and group texts, finalized after the Cats were summarily dismantled by Iowa State at Braml

A year-and-a-half ago I was met with an opportunity too good to pass up. It came about while working with the owner/publisher of The Manhattan Mercury on combining the operations of the paper with his family-owned radio stations.   It went sort of like this: “Hey Matson, given your background and experience, why don’t you design and host a radio talk show that we can sell?”   There was some altruism baked in. One topic per hour, one, maybe two guests per topic, use it as a ve