
The following is a chapter from my satirical novel about radio obsession titled Radio-saurus Rex:
The Gospel of Jeff McMahon: Radios and the Search for Meaning
By Chad Killingsworth
Walking into Jeff McMahon’s office at Prospect College feels like stepping into the inner sanctum of a man who is equal parts philosopher, fitness enthusiast, and nostalgia-fueled enthusiast. The walls are lined with mismatched bookshelves sagging under the weight of classic literature, kettlebell training manuals, and books with titles like The Art of Radio Listening and Nostalgia Isn’t What It Used to Be. A giant Godzilla figurine looms over the desk, which is scattered with student essays, two monitors, and an oversized coffee mug emblazoned with the words “World’s Okayest Human.”
McMahon is perched in his thickly padded gamer chair, eating a peanut butter protein bar with the kind of reverence most people reserve for a Michelin-starred meal. In his other hand, an apple sits, half-devoured.
“Peanut butter,” he says, mid-chew, “isn’t just a food—it’s a lifestyle. If civilization collapses, I could survive on it indefinitely. Peanut butter and kettlebells. That’s all I need.”
He chuckles, but there’s no mistaking the sincerity behind the joke. For McMahon, the simple pleasures are paramount, and as I’m about to learn, they’re central to the phenomenon he’s unwittingly sparked: a resurgence in the love of radios.
“People Don’t Buy Things; They Buy Ideas”
As I settle into the chair across from him, McMahon brushes crumbs off his shirt and launches into a discussion about the radio craze he helped ignite. “What I’ve learned over the years,” he says, “is that people don’t buy things. They buy ideas and representations. When I was obsessed with watches, it wasn’t about telling time. Who needs that when you’ve got a smartphone? Watches were about the illusion of control—being whole, confident, fully functional in a chaotic world. Radios are the same thing.”
He pauses to take another bite of the protein bar, savoring it as though it’s proof of life’s inherent goodness. “Radios,” he continues, “represent something that people are desperate for: the idea of slowing down. They’re a symbol of sitting in a hammock, reading a book, decompressing, finding serenity and comfort in a world that’s unspooling at the seams.”
This philosophy is reflected in his wildly popular YouTube channel, where his videos aren’t so much reviews of radios as they are meditations on finding peace in small, analog pleasures. His laid-back demeanor and wry humor have attracted a diverse audience—some nostalgic for the golden age of radio, others just looking for a reprieve from their relentlessly connected lives.
“I’m not selling products,” McMahon explains, gesturing toward a Tecsun PL-680 sitting on his desk like a shrine. “I’m selling the idea of a sanctuary. Of order in a world of chaos.”
The Radio Whisperer at Work
Our conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door. One of McMahon’s colleagues enters, holding a brand-new Tecsun PL-880 as if it’s a golden chalice. His expression is a mix of excitement and confusion.
“Jeff, I did it,” the colleague announces, beaming. “I bought the radio! But please, for the love of God, help me set the time and figure out these presets. The manual might as well be in hieroglyphics.”
McMahon grins, his patience infinite. He takes the radio, his fingers moving over the buttons with the ease of a maestro at a keyboard. “Here’s your clock,” he says, “and here are your presets. Let me throw in a tip: don’t forget to adjust the bandwidth. Makes all the difference on shortwave.”
The colleague leaves, clutching his newly configured radio like a child with a freshly filled Easter basket. “The joy radio brings to people’s lives,” McMahon says, turning back to me with a wistful smile. “It’s immeasurable.”
Nostalgia and the Longing for Connection
McMahon’s success isn’t just about his charisma or his insights into consumer psychology. It’s about tapping into a collective longing for connection—something that radio, in its analog simplicity, provides in spades.
“Streaming platforms,” McMahon explains, “are designed to feed us what we already like. They isolate us in these bubbles of confirmation bias. But radio? Radio’s unpredictable. It throws you into the mix, connects you to voices you’d never hear otherwise. It’s communal in a way that streaming can’t replicate.”
He tells me about fans who have written to him, describing how they listen to their radios while fishing, gardening, or lying in hammocks. “One guy told me he hasn’t felt this ‘cozy’ in decades,” McMahon says. “It’s not just about the music or the news—it’s about the feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself.”
A Reluctant Trendsetter
Despite the frenzy his videos have caused—radio manufacturers scrambling to meet demand, a boom in online forums dedicated to AM/FM aficionados—McMahon insists he didn’t set out to start a movement. “I’m just a guy who likes radios,” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t expect this to blow up.”
Still, he acknowledges the irony of his newfound role as a radio evangelist. “I used to be obsessed with watches,” he admits. “I had this whole collection, each one representing some idea of who I wanted to be. But watches are ultimately about self-absorption. Radio is about connection. It’s about reaching out instead of looking inward.”
A New Kind of Sanctuary
As I prepare to leave, McMahon finishes his apple and tosses the core into a trash can with surprising finesse. Before I go, I ask him how he sees his role in the broader cultural landscape.
He leans back in his chair, cradling the Tecsun like a talisman. “I think people are hungry for something real,” he says. “Not just the idea of something real, but actual, tangible connection. Radio gives them that. It’s imperfect, unpredictable, and alive. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what we need right now.”
On my way out, I pass the colleague from earlier, who’s sitting in the faculty lounge, his Tecsun perched on the table, tuned to a classical station. He looks up and gives me a thumbs-up. “McMahon’s the real deal,” he says. “The Radio Whisperer.”
Back in my car, I can’t help but flip on the radio. For a moment, I let the static wash over me before the station comes into focus. It’s a voice, warm and crackling, announcing the local weather. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like the world is speaking directly to me.
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