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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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Our story opens to the sounds of macho Nihongo stuff:
[sucking sound]; Katana; Wakizashi; Bokken etc. [a deep hoarse O-o-o-o]
"Sumimasen, Kojiro san: kaisuiyoku ni ikimasen ka?1" as Miyamoto Musashi once said to Sasaki Kojiro on Ganryûjima . Oh sorry, sorry I'm sure you don't have the faintest idea what that's all about, and that's simply because you probably don’t realise this is the famous, or at least infamous Talk Like a Samurai Day---I mean I suppose you wouldn’t really since I’ve only just invented it.
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Having heard her alibi; that, at the exact moment that her boss was beaten to death with a halibut, she was home in bed with a bad cold, the detective couldn't help thinking the whole tale was a tissue of lies and that there was something fishy going on. Then of course the case broke and then she learned that the Scales of Justice were nothing to be sneezed at, when investigation of her boss’s main rival, the Dutchman Hans Boomp-Zeedazi, revealed that her name was not Anne Bloater, nor was she pregnant (merely a bit bloated), and that behind a string of ingenious aliases---Anne Drogenous; Anne Aconda; Anne Onymous to mention but a few--- that he was her uncle, so she was really Hans niece, Anne Boomp-Zeedazi!
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Typical bloody Texas weather in February---it's been up in the 80s and really, really spring-like, and you know what they say (or at least what Tennyson said, or rather wrote ) don't you "In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of..." well you probably know what those thoughts are too, "In the Spring a young man's fancy..." and I might as well admit that my fancy turns there as well: in my case to thoughts of Georgia.
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People at work try desperately, and ultimately hopelessly, to humanize their workspaces; to add some vague, tiny, pathetic, whimpering hint of personality to their drab lifeless cubicles.
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The other week I ... I can hardly bring myself to tell you about it ... but ...but ...the other week I--I, I suffered an armed home invasion.
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I wish the Modern Age would make up it's bloody mind and stop giving me these damned mixed signals: on the one hand it scatters families and friends (like mine) to the four corners, so we can't talk or even meet (my kids are either physically, or in extreme cases mentally, still teenagers so, no, I didn't get that the wrong way round, I do know it's perfectly possible to meet certain people without talking) so as on the one hand it takes from us with scattering, on the other hand it gives us all this technology to communicate incessantly. I mean that's a Hell of a rude and insensitive way for any time-period to act, let alone a time-period as hip and trendy as the Modern Age.
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From time to time, I've had comments about the digressive-ity and aside-iness of these essays, not to mention the fact that up to half the content, and often almost all of the meaning in them is hidden away in feetnote1 ...feetnote which aren't even available without going to the considerable effort of getting online, going to my website, finding the essay, reading the bloody thing and finally scrolling down to the putative note, an effort which is, I freely admit, sometimes just not worth the effort.
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Afterwards the police spokesman said that it had been the most egregious example of stalking they had ever seen. The perp would stand for hours outside her house---on one leg and on the roof; and had even built a large, crude and rather ungainly nest on top of her chimney.
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If you’ve listened to these essays for any noticeable time at all you will be aware by now that I am heavily involved with computers.
You’re probably also quite well aware of the concept of conspiracy theories and of secret societies.
What you may not be aware of is just how the subjects of these two awarenesses intertwine.
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It’s Sex-Mad-Tree time down here in Plano, and this year the trees are having the wildest imaginable orgies---no, what am I saying?--- I mean the wildest unimaginable orgies (unimaginable unless you happen to be the Marquis de Sade or an English Premier League football player)---orgies with multiple partners---multiple simultaneous partners if the wind is blowing in the right direction! And of late the wind has been very strong, and those disgusting trees have been in full rut! And we all know how horrid rutting trees can be. Yes, it’s the time of trees getting all jiggly and wildly ejaculating pollen for all they are worth, and with no more thought for the morrow than Sen. Joseph McCarthy had for the Murrow and with similar dire results. And it’s me that’s suffering them---suffering from Pollenationally Transmitted Disease again---eye-watering and spluttering and sneezing like an emu on coke!
Ah! There should be a Tree Surgeon General’s warning nailed to every tree!
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