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Here is a Sup—I mean repository of the texts of my together with some readings of them. The essays were broadcast by WXXI 91.5 Classical of Rochester, NY on Salmagundy each Saturday at 9:35am Eastern Time, from the beginning of time (1985) till May 2009 when Entropa (evil Goddess of Change-for-the-Worse-or-Possibly-the-Worst) troubled the minds of the WXXIites and they retired Simon and Salmagundy, and Rochester went into a terminal decline---for ever.
I continued on that brilliant bastion of all that's good and kultured, WCLV's syndicated Weekend Radio on many (mainly NPRish) stations traditionally on the first and third weekends of the month, though weekendage varied, till the horror crept ever onward and that too was devoured (in August 2023, a date which will live in infamy or at lease mild irritation)... and only I remain, defiant though wimpering.
Richard Howland-Bolton
There are pop-up pics and links all over the place here. In text they are indicated by a double underline like this:
mouse-overing brings the pop-up up and clicking (usually) goes to the link |
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Ahh! In the old days when I was still young and skillful (and cut a dashing figure) I lived the adventurous life of a professional photographer---why I even took photos! (Oh the fond memories: the original sinar-P, the Hasselblad SWC, the Nikon f-2, and (I'm afraid) finally the young ladies who while keeping all of their clothes on some of the time, never could manage to keep all of their clothes on all of the time--which, by the way, I believe is one of those things that it turns out that Abraham Lincoln never actually said)
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I suppose I just have to jump on the band-waggon before it leaves the stati... um... before it leaves whatever band-wagons leave from, and add my few comments to the many on that new movie thing from that Mel Gibson person.
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Well I finally started that photo essay1 , as I'm sure you'll be pleased to know---or maybe you don't know about it. You see, for months I've been meaning to document the strangely, inordinately inaccurate parking habits of a particular little red Volkswagen Beetle who always manages to get in to our parking garage at work before me and hence (since I'm always nearly the first one to arrive in the mornings) before everyone else, and so with an entire garage to park in it still manages, every morning to park on (rather than between) the lines that mark out our individual bays.
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I was a bit slow walking past the Telly the other day and so I didn't quite avoid seeing a couple of those advert things that everyone is always going on about. The first was for Free Pancakes at some restaurant chain or other: Yes, it more or less claimed (in so many words), you can have as many of the lardaceous things as you can be force fed and all without even taking the responsibility of paying for them. This was, with the sort of inevitability usually found only in the harder sciences, immediately followed by an ad for pills to lose weight (presumably that gained because of the first ad) without, as far as I could see, the responsibility of absolutely anything at all: certainly without the responsibility of finding out what was in the (at least to my jaundiced eye) somewhat dubious or at least magical substances.
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I usually don’t like to comment on things until they have had a chance to age, to lie down and mature a bit like a fine wine. You know the sort of thing, reporting on the battle of Hastings and pointing out what a bastard that William was.
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According to Boswell's Life the great Dr Johnston when observing the rapid re-marriage of a man who's previous married life had been far from happy came up with the great one liner that it was "the triumph of Hope over Experience" and this, not surprisingly, reminds me that last weekend I took the children to see the second film in the Lord of the Rings series.
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Oh dear! I have to admit it! I suffer from Xenaphobia. Now I know I'm English and you know that when we leave England the last thing they drum into us is that, wherever we are, it's the other guy who is always the foreigner and it's you foreigners that have the funny accent, never we English (unless, of course, we come from Newcastle or the like), and while we would never stoop to the excesses of patriotism that some country's citizens do, constantly waving it around, we just assume that the English are best and quietly know what sort of a passport God carries.
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[et o ces voix d'enfants ...]
Expostulate, expostulate
Bring up what you cogitate
E - X - P - O - U - N - D
E - X - P - O - U - N - D
Expound, expound
Bleeeechchchhhh!
... as the chants of the cheerleaders fade away I'd like to be able to tell you how I've just come back from yet another successful production of my hit series of the World-Wide Postulate Wrestling championships, where mighty thinkers indulge in extreme positions and pound postulates into the canvas and chase wild premises up mountains and hurl herds of lemmas over cliffs, but of course I can't, such things it seems are only possible as figments of my imagination.
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A chap in England, named (if I heard the radio aright) Mark Lewison, has just published a biography, called Funny Peculiar, of the vulgar (in more senses than the obvious) comedian Benny Hill, who died so sadly in 1992.
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Since I moved down to Texas I'm not getting any---culture I mean.
While this is not a complete Ozymandian1 desert (more like scrub-land if you ask me) we are definitely not overwhelmed with culture and I've been reduced to watching movies from the local video store.
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