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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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They had one of those Public Radio begathon1 thingies the other week and, just before my piece, one of the begathonners (no doubt to cement some sort of perceived, or perhaps merely desired, camaraderie with you, the potential begathonees) said of my essay: "I understand one word in four; maybe".
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This whole week has been a terribly moving experience for me!
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I bumped into Monica and Melanie in Einstein Bagels last Saturday and we started reminiscing, as one does at our ages, about our pasts.
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Urchchch!
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Phew!
Well I think I survived, but let me check all my limbs and organs and stuff.
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I blame that old Prussian bugger Fahrenheit for much of what follows---if only he hadn’t had bit of a fever that day.
Oh!
Oh, sorry, you probably have no idea what I’m talking about so, before I make a frightful, absolute horlicks of this essay, let’s back up a bit: you see the other week I got attacked by some unknown and totally unmentionable and disgustingly non-Hollywoodishly-attractive oral virus. It was horrible; for not only was this virus not in the Hollywood tradition of tastefully non-disfiguring diseases, it didn’t even fit into the Bollywood model (which is really rather similar but with the addition of a lot of singing and dancing, a sword fight, a cow standing in the middle of the road for no very discernible reason and a much bigger audience).
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Those of you unlucky enough to be hearing me for the second week in a row, especially those doubly cursed with total recall, will be aware that a mere seven days ago I threatened that after years of storing up ideas in my commonplace book I was finally New-Year’s resolved to let some of the poor neglected blighters finally see the light of the airwaves.
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I have all sorts of problems accepting the arbitrary: stuff like this New Year Thingy of recent memory fills me with disquiet---I mean the cycle of years is just that, a cycle: an orobousian, caudiphagous cycle with no break, so that any artificially induced break is horribly, horribly arbitrary. Oh you may find moments of relative significance ---equinoxes, solsticeses and the like; but they aren’t really much to go on unless, I suppose, you sink to becoming an astronomer; and then, poor sod, you’ll immediately realise that nothing matches terribly well: the annual rotation round the Sun; the mensual rotation of the Moon; the diurnal rotation of the Earth, none of them match up, so that, for example, the Winter Solstice ends up all over the place on the calendar (um... relatively speaking that is) not to mention all over the clock. Looking again at that New Year Thingy, the Theys that do such things obviously aimed carefully at the solstice and quite understandably missed it. So the upshot of all this is that I’ve been fighting with myself all week about the possibility of this New Year Thingy being perhaps newish or yeary or even both, and for once I won!
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Would you credit it? After I've been doing stuff for these buggers over the last twenty-one years they are still too cheap to spring for a five minute phone call down to Plano. There I was all ready at a moments notice to hurl myself onto the telephone, but my self-sacrificial offer went unheeded and the poor sod celebrated his ninetieth year on the Radio effectively alone in his mean little oubliette, possibly sobbing to boot.
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Even though the internet is a non-place and moreover a non-place scattered all over the actual place, it is such a wonderful non-place for bringing disparate things together and for joining questions to answers, especially if you already know the answer but aren't too sure of the question, And so it was that the other day, as my fingers wandered idly over my noisy computer's keys, I was moved to wonder about the US Census Bureau's site where I was suddenly and surprisingly acquainted with the average, or rather the arithmetic mean, of household incomes for the United States.
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