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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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It has always seemed rather funny to me how even today, with all our science and education, we still use magic to control vast ungovernable and terrifying forces of nature.
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Well it is that sad time of year yet again. All over the country in overcrowded broiler fields poor little underage Christmas trees are facing chain saws---and facing up to this annual slaughter we at People for the Ethical Treatment of Christmas Trees (or as it’s more commonly known PETFir ) will be out in force again.
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It is really horrible being a writer. I was up at 2 am this morning ... cleaning those little pan things that reside under the burners on the stove with baking soda—anything rather than work on this essay.
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Oh Damn! While I was in England I meant to do a piece on how Americans can’t pronounce the names of their towns and cities, or at least not the names they stole from us, but I forgot, so now I can’t get at you from a safe distance, but since it is an interesting idea I think I’ll risk it anyway.
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As you listen to this I will probably still be hurtling along the road between Plano and Ithaca---fifteen hundred miles of cruisin’ with the radio blastin’ (well at least turned up a little bit from its usual level, and for once in its life tuned to a country station)---and I’ll be doing something that there is no way I could do back in England...
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The other day I had a...
Have I ever told you why I’m always so vague about exactly when the things I mention actually happen?
It’s because I never know how long these bloody essays are going to take me to write and I don’t like to actually lie to you.
At least not about that.
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Thag you, Sibon!
Oh gord I’ve gort Sniffle-is. I’m beginning to come down with some dread disease.
I’m terminal in Texas.
I am sniffilitic.
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I'm sorry, but I'm beginning to suspect that you just don't care about your mother! I mean, what have you got planned for tomorrow? Do you have your Simnel cakes all baked and ready? Are you bouncing around with excitement over the prospect of a day spent going a-Mothering? Have you got the faintest idea what I am talking about?
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So here we are at the close of the day again and I seem to have ended up with one son who looks a lot like a blond Bob Marley and another who looks almost exactly like a dark-haired Hayley Mills.
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One of the great pleasures in life for Europeans in general and, of course, for Englishmen in particular is that feeling of cultural and intellectual superiority we get when talking to Americans.
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