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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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My Dear Americans,
We just got a visit from [pause] the Shrouders.
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My Dear Americans,
as Shakespeare once said, or more likely wrote for somebody else to say, "a nose by any other name would smell, so Romeo would were he not Romeo called"
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[sings---sort of]
I cannot get any satisfaction.
I cannot obtain any satisfaction.
And I have tried,
and attempted,
and endeavoured,
and I have striven.
I cannot derive any satisfaction.
[ends---thankfully]
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I believe that Shakespeare once wrote something along the lines of:
"A nose by any other name would smell,
"So Romeo would were he not Romeo called".
And, any considerations of personal hygiene or the lack thereof in sixteenth century Verona aside, he was right you know: re-naming something doesn't make a ha'porth of difference!
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  As you've probably noticed I have a slight (and I'd like to take this opportunity to emphasize that word---slight, really slight, really really slight) a SLIGHT tendency to get worked up about things that do not similarly exercise some people (and I'd like now to take this other opportunity to emphasize that in logic absolutely anything less than all, than everyone, than the totality; is some---for example, some Ancient Greeks didn't give a damn about how much faster than Achilles the tortoise was , nor how the cute crusted little thing could keep his small beak ahead of Achilles' big one, nor yet that Achilles was perhaps being a bit of a heel when took on a poor tiny tortoise in the first place, almost all of them indeed preferring exercise especially, since they were Ancient Greeks, in the nude----where was I ---Oh! Yes...)
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When I was young and naïve, I loved to study languages, then as I (sort of) matured I discovered how much more interesting it was to study the history of languages. Then at last with wisdom came the realisation that the study of the history of the study of the history of languages was the most interesting of all and even more fun and, as it turned out to my absolute delight, much noisier and more onomatopœic.
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I learned, just the other day, how to roffle my woffle, and before we go any further let me reassure you that that dancing was not involved, I kept all my clothes on, and (to reassure you even further) poles were not involved either (to any great extent)---however the number thirteen-thirty-seven was.
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The deepest sort of evil manifests itself (almost by definition) at the oddest, most unexpected times; as when the sweet little girl’s gently spinning top turns out on closer examination to be her head rotating as she projectile-vomits both verbally and ectoplasmically; or again as when evil rears its (in this instance not necessarily rotational) head on an internet mailing list devoted to that loveliest, most dulcet and least devilish of musical instruments, the recorder.
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Right! Now listen up, you lot! I’m going to tell you this, and I’m going to tell you just this once “Words have gender: people (if they are lucky) have sex!!”
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It has come to my attention that no one currently alive in the United States of America, and precious few even in England, can correctly pronounce the word “forehead” any more.
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