I have never met Ira Glass, but I feel like I know him. For years now, I’ve listened to his show on NPR, This American Life, and re-listened to favorites online, and caught up on the shows I’ve missed, and after all this time, I’ve come to feel like we’ve got something special, me and Ira. Radio, as he himself has said, is an intimate medium: It’s like that person in the broadcast booth, he’s talking just to you, you alone. But it’s more than that. Ira knows me. He can anticipate the writers I like, the kinds of stories I’m eager to hear, and the thoughts and doubts I’m going to have about them. When he does an interview, and he laughs, I’m laughing too; Ira is also the master of the pregnant pause, and many times, in those heartbeats of silence on the air, I’ve caught myself holding my own breath along with him. It’s gotten to the point where I can no longer tell whether my tastes are my own, my reactions my own, my point of view my own, or if they’ve all been subsumed into Ira’s.