The FugHouse is empty this time of day. The sun has yet to rise. I let myself in silently so I don’t disturb my wife who’s still in bed in our house across the driveway from the radio station’s front door. Inside, everything is disheveled. Some walls are bare, computers are gone. Redwood Voice has moved out, though the where and why I’m no longer privy to. I’m sure there’s a reason. It’s been a strange couple of weeks. Just last month, two Redwood Voice reporters and I went all the way to Los Angeles for a conference and everything seemed fine. More than fine, really. We were gearing up for a slew of youth media programs for the summer; our new antenna mast and hardline lay on the floor of the garage waiting to be hoisted into place. We were nearing denouement with our pending Klamath Promise Neighborhood proposal, which, if executed, would take our organization into entirely uncharted waters, expanding everyone’s role, cementing Redwood Voice’s place as Del Norte’s news source. It was an exciting, if fraught, time to be the director of a nonprofit community radio station with a youth media program at its core. Then, in a matter of mere days, everything changed. There was board room drama, and relationships shifted with the sudden violence of a strike-slip fault. Though I’m being purposefully vague, ironically, I want to be clear: no one did anything wrong, nothing illegal or immoral or any of those other messy reasons board rooms get dramatic. Everybody acted and reacted according to Hoyle. Everybody except me. Sitting there at the table in the Kobold’s Lair, where we held our board meetings, I realized KFUG/Redwood Voice had become an organization I no longer wanted to be a part of. That’s the rational thought portion of my reaction. It took a couple of days for me to reach this conclusion. In the moment, I was blinded by rage and stormed out. Typical Paul. I’ve fantasized in the past about storming out of KFUG. For fifteen years, the little low-power station’s been central in my life. More than just a job. I’ve interviewed everyone in town, it seems. I’ve done shows with my children, my father. Collectively, we’ve had an impact on the community, becoming an important part of the media landscape and giving youth the tools and experience they need to continue in the field. But personally, it’s been a slog. As we grew, my media role diminished. I’ve written more budgets than articles this last year. I barely had a show on KFUG anymore, and even then, I’d be interrupted by people needing to talk to me, get a decision from me about something other than the next Fugazi cut. I have become a manager of people, the writer of checks. I lay awake at night and estimate payroll taxes. Often, in our editorial meetings, I’m envious of the reporters as they share what stories they’re working on, what leads they’re following. They get out and do the real work, the fun stuff. My part of the meeting usually has to do with money. Where the latest grant stood. Who was going to renew their underwriting. Over time, I grew to hate my job. There were days when my first thought would be something along the lines of “you again?” Those days, I didn’t even want to get out of bed. Physically, the stress took a toll. I once had a pain in my neck that lasted two years. My lower back often feels like it’s comprised of a mixture of portland cement and nettles. Burnout has become a way of life. Did you know that in the first person a panic attack can seem just like a heartache? Especially when it wakes you in the middle of the night and your defenses are down. And it’s little consolation to learn that the only way to alleviate the attacks is to have them again and again until you become habituated to the experience. So, there was something cathartic about storming out of the board meeting. It was unprofessional –childish, even – but it was definitely cathartic. Since then, as the dust and acrimony have settled, I’ve been struggling to understand what comes next. It’s felt like I have this hole in my psyche where a funky little radio station used to be. I’ve gotten many messages from DJs as word of all this has trickled out, or as they’ve come by the station and been greeted with a sign tacked to the front door telling them their shows have been “paused.” I appreciate each and every one of these people and the sentiments they convey. KFUG’s meant a lot to me, too. Most of the walls in the FugHouse are still covered with posters, flyers, photos… the visual leavings of all the people who have made up KFUG, the events and programs, the gags and in-jokes. Standing in the predawn studio, Bad Brains playing quietly on the radio, I scan the walls and read our story there. There’s a Peter Cris doll that’s been crucified on two sticks. A painting of Prince a listener gave us. Monique’s K-pop corner. I see Mike Thornton’s face. Persephone’s artwork. Jim Wayman floating down a river. Don Jones dressed in a tuxedo. In a drawer I find a 14 year-old flyer for the KFUG Karaoke Contest. There’s a note about the Candidate’s Forum at the Methodist Church still pinned to a corkboard. A part of the broadcast desk is the top of a coffee table I had in college. Back then, friends carved pictures, mostly late at night, in the black paint. Those pictures have been rubbed faint by the ensuing 35 years. Standing there, looking down into that tabletop, almost prismatic in its self-referential-ness, I realize there are layers to this story. Each generation of Fugheads have left a patina over the visual narrative of those that came before; and after fifteen years, this station has grown a strangely beautiful skin. There’s a part of me that wants to hold on to all of it, to keep this present, remembered. But I’m old enough to know both the futility and folly of that wish. Shit falls apart. Human institutions bloat, calcify and go blind. Just like their creators. I don’t know what will happen to KFUG or Redwood Voice. Both will continue. And all the growth and expansion that was possible last month is still possible today. For the last several years, I’ve consciously striven to create an organization that didn’t rely on the force of my personality to work, and I’ve succeeded, as the board room drama ironically illustrated. I’ve gathered the people who together have created a “system” with it’s own inflection points and SOPs. Somehow, this has all become something that will continue without me. As it should. The sun is almost up. It’s nearly time for me to go. Above the window where DJ Headcayce used to do his live Friday night shows, I find what I’m looking for: a print tacked to the wall, the homepage image from our first website. An interplanetary landscape with stars and moons and a cartoon Tesla tower. Across it, in silver Sharpie, are the signatures of the first generation of KFUG volunteers. SPOP. Buddy Waycool. Martha, The Goddess of Rock. Blake “Kitchen Sink.” Jack Knife. There are more, most of whom have moved on. A couple have transitioned. A few have died. I remember them all. I pull the tacks from the wall and take down the print. The dried ink has flaked in places and the paper is stiff and wrinkled from exposure to the elements. Same. I lock the door behind me as I leave.