The Hot Hot-Line

It is just before 1 a.m., any 1 a.m. from Monday through Saturday, and the din from the next-door Bowladrome has died away when Larry Glick climbs to the second-floor studio of Boston's WMEX ("the ever-new Wee-Mex, Home of Modern Radio"), eases himself into his chair, its torn plastic cushion oozing sponge rubber. Around him are ashtrays half-filled with cigarettes left by the daytime rock 'n' roll D.J.s. Staring at him is the control panel held together with electrical tape. On the scarred horseshoe table sits a six-line beige telephone, equipped with six lights that will flicker when the telephone calls come in.

But first he relaxes as his taped introduction is played over the air: "Well, it's night and everything's all right. Just as right as it can be. Ladies and gentlemen, you're tuned to the new WMEX in the new Boston. The station in a growing Boston, headquarters for the nighttime Glicknics. A Glicknic is a thing called happiness, and happiness is a thing called Larry Glick."

This is Glick's signal to turn himself on, and hunching toward the mike, a big smile spreading over his face, he greets the great unseen listening audience in his deep, friendly baritone: "How do you feel? I really mean it. How are you getting along with your wife? How are you getting along with your boy friend? We'll discuss all these things. CO 2-9600. You call us. You're the star of this show." And before he is done, the lights do go on. The fans are calling in, and Larry Glick's all-night hot-line show is in business.

2 1/2 Years on the Bottle. Glick's telephone call-in program is just one of dozens that are proliferating across the U.S., giving the platter parades and baseball broadcasts a run for the ratings. Glick, 43, now with his eighth radio station since 1953, has become a glib, gemütlich master of the new formula. All he has to defend himself against his telephone callers is a tape-delay device, which gives him a four-second time lag in which to erase obscenities from the air. To ease the strain, there is an occasional celebrity visitor such as Songstress Edie Adams or Rocky Marciano.

The rest is up to the listeners, and for Glick's fans it provides nighttime fare that combines all the appeal of a stormy town meeting with the piquancy of listening in on the party line to real-life drama. "Oh Larry," begins one mother's voice, "my boy's been on the bottle for the last 2½ years; what am I going to do?" Another caller wants to wipe up the Viet Cong, the next discusses self-hypnotism, a third knocks himself out with his own imitation of Bobby Kennedy, and then along in the wee small hours comes a dope addict, who swears he would have committed suicide long ago if Larry had not made him feel that he "belonged to a family."

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