Hal Stern's thoughts on the economy, software, services, technology, and snowmen. Hal Stern: The Morning Snowman

Commercial college radio provided me with my first experiences in sales. As an advertising sales "rep" for WPRB-FM, Princeton's student-run radio station, I had to pitch ideas, produce ads, write copy, frequently voice the ads myself, manage our cash stream and do demand generation. It was a great way to finance my growing record collection. There are only a handful of commercial college stations; most are either financed by the affiliated institution or through listeners, much like the Public Broadcasting System ("supported by viewers like you").

But WPRB-FM has a long and technologically illustrative Tiger tale. As the first FM college station, it received a broadcast frequency of 103.5 FM, later swapped for cash and the equally useful 103.3 FM. Most student-run stations are banished to the lower end of the frequency spectrum, where they're less likely to be found by "dial twiddling", something that worked in favor of listeners in the Trenton-Princeton-New Brunswick Route 1 corridor who let go of the tuning knob when something on the radio make them tune in a bit more closely. A broadcast format that included classical and jazz provided an advertising platform for local businesses: jewelers, travel companies, the University Store, and some higher end eateries. The station was, and is, self-supporting without any assistance from Princeton University aside from the use of space in a dormitory basement, and (at the time) a spot for the broadcast antenna on top of the same building.

Afternoons and evenings featured WPRB's "progressive" format, today probably known as alternative, eclectic, or just fun. It included everything from truly obscure local bands (like Regressive Aid and their conjoined one-show band with The Groceries, the aptly named Lunchmeat 2000) to bands that nobody had heard of (at the time) like REM. Our listeners were as varied as our on-air programming; I'm sure that most of my classmates who frequently voiced "WPRB plays crap" as we spun U2's Boy now own copies of Bono vox and How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb. We had shows that featured reggae, art rock (think Yes, Genesis and King Crimson), metal and alternative, and during one weekend when we were moving a wall, all 20-minute plus tracks so that we could swing hammers and not just bass lines. Our varied programming after lunchtime let us pick up "punk clubs" (King Tut City Gardens) and various other counter-cultural havens as advertisers who had no other routes to listeners.

College radio, powered by a desire to disrupt convention, and expose listeners to something new, is the epitome of a long tail. Only through college radio could my friend P hear Alaskan punk band (don't ask) "The Anemic Boyfriends" on WFMU-FM and declare them high art. The essence of Chris Anderson's long tail economics is to drive more overall volume by first expanding the "tail" of a distribution curve, and then moving demand from the head of the curve (smash hits) to the tail (future micro-smashes). The problem in the 80s was distribution -- as desperate as P was to find the 45 RPM single of The Anemic Boyfriends, it took nearly a year and a trip to the ferro-ciously good used record store in Ithaca, New York, to find the vinyl.

No matter how long the tail, at the end of the distribution curve, there's another distribution curve of even more refined, more obscure listeners. It's what led Dave, one of my managers who knows I have a penchant for being a Yes-man, to point me at Porcupine Tree as the Yes of this generation. He's right, and I spent $45 on content I would have never found through any other channel. And at the transitive closure of those distribution and demand curves, you'll find Indie Rock Pete from Diesel Sweeties, afraid to like anything with a positive listener count.

In the mid-80s, WPRB went through a financial change brought about by the confluence of an expanding New York radio market making our 103.3 FM frequency more of an impediment to our neighbors on the dial who wanted to go bigger. Through several years of negotiations, FCC filings and long meetings, WPRB was able to expand its broadcast area and received a cash infusion at the same time. Numerous exhaustive and exhausting discussions ensured about the financial models that would govern how and where the money would be spent in future years. We debated the risks of investment strategies, regulatory issues and continuity of student leadership, and yet it was forces exogenous to the broadcast industry that reshaped WPRB 20 years later.

When you mix podcasting, blogging, and social networks as ways for students to share their musical likes and dislikes, the on-air pulpit is less appealing. Running a commercial station with a unique value proposition is much harder when that same value-through-unique programming can be obtained with a combination of Google and iTunes. WPRB has switched from a commercial format to a listener supported financial model, still maintaining the quasi-independence of Princeton's direct sponsorship and the fiercely independent creativity in its programming. College radio is far from dead. It does, however, rely on direct support of listeners who delight in hearing something new, finding a reference to it on a web site, and monetizing that interest almost immediately, without intervening ads for unrelated products.

Hall of Fame 2.0 The National Baseball Hall of Fame is a physical and emotional experience. In addition to honoring the great players and builders of the game, it's a repository for the artifacts of great accomplishments, records, and the culture of baseball. As the only team sport measured in defensive success, not on a clock, it encourages us to think of time as malleable, our thoughts drifting between this year's excitement and the youthful memories that first made us fans.

Unfortunately, the Hall feels like a museum, which it is, rather than a glimpse into the collective memory and celebration of the National Pastime. Less than 10% of the balls, bats, bases and beauty of the collection is on display at any time, and the organization of the displays makes it hard to formulate a story out of what's there. Baseball tradition, like religious tradition, is passed on through storytelling and personal action; it's parents telling their kids about famous players, great plays, or playing the sport. It's my father telling my son about a mutual friend who played for Honus Wagner in Pittsburgh, or me telling my kids why and how Willie Stargell inspired me to choose #8 when possible (even when going through toll booths), and at some point in the future, my daughter telling my grandchildren about the night we went to the Giants game to hope that Barry hit 756 into our section of the bleachers (we were a night early, but the memories will remain sans asterisque). It's the equal mix of seriousness and silliness that led me to hand out free ice pops to any Little League baseball or softball player wearing jersey #8, provided they let me say "for Willie Stargell".

Walking through the three floors of the Hall, I found Willie Stargell's plaque, a solo shot in the 1988 inductee class. Around the corner is one of his baseball cards as part of an exhibit geared toward younger kids, and upstairs in the legends of the game alleys, you'll find a Willie Stargell jersey paired with an exhibit about Roberto Clemente. So far, so good, and again, what anyone would expect from a first-rate museum. But on the third floor, the subtleties and opportunities for telling stories emerge. A 1970s World Series program has a page showing the buttons worn by Pirates fans, including "Chicken on the Hill," Willie Stargell's off-season employment and passion. Around the corner, there's the bat Stargell used in the 1979 World Series, where he was voted MVP, next to one of Kent Tekulve's Pirates hats. Sewn around the bucket-shaped lid, and across its top, are "Stargell Stars", player recognition given out by Stargell for particularly good play.

What was most disturbing was the lack of informed help at the Hall. Twice I asked logo-wearing employees where I might find Ron Bloomberg's bat (used in the first at-bat by a designated hitter), and was told it probably wasn't on display (it is, on the third floor in the records room, behind that of 1969 Met Art Shamsky, another item we sought). Conversely, every visitor had his or her own reasons to search something out, to tell its story of relative importance, and to take pictures that will highlight the next time those memories are revisited. While the inductees are selected by the Baseball Writers, it is the individual scribes of the game that truly relate the history of the game.

What's missing from the exhibit room is a place for all of us to share our own experiences with these tools of the baseball trade. To borrow a phrase from Tim O'Reilly, the Hall of Fame lacks an architecture for participation, a Hall of Fame 2.0, where user-generated content including pictures, stories, and our own interpretations can embellish the tools of the trade on display. Here's my ideal Hall of Fame experience: Knowing that you want to revel in Willie Stargell legend and lore, you can find all of the references to "Pops" and plan your own exhibit guide. Posted on the Hall's website would be an email from Stargell's niece explaining how Stargell stars were the one item his family asked for, more than autographs or baseballs, a reward to be given out. It makes Tekulve's hat more impressive, and more personal, perched next to Stargell's bat. I'd have a link to the Chicken on the Hill dining experience at PNC Park where a bit of Willie lives on, so that the World Series program makes sense in contexts both current and three decades old. I'd point to my Facebook picture album of number 8s from around the world, for the same reason NASCAR fans put driver numbers on their rides? Over time, as Willie Stargell said, the number comes to represent you in real life and not just on the roster. And finally, we'd have real merchandising, a place to locate the stores along Cooperstown's Main Street that sell licensed Stargell t-shirts, something to make the 4-hour trip home more comfortable.

The Hall of Fame board of directors is full of baseball management and talent, but no fans. No participation. Not even a hint of technology, from a sport that has always raced to utilize technology for the good of the game. Isn't it time that the fans share their knowledge and emotion, sometimes with religious fervor, in the shrine dedicated to the game's long-term history?