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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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This modern age of correctness gone all political is a hard age for the creative genius to flourish all untrammelled in. I was roundly and widely and probably justifiably pummelled for my piece on compulsive poetry disorder because it wantonly ignored the contrafactualists.
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Today I'm going to appeal to you on behalf of sufferers from a most ghastly affliction, one that is both a disease and an addiction.
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Did you know that I’m actually half Scottish, or as the Scots side of the family prefer to think of it---at least he’s half English, so with that in mind, I positively leaped at a recent chance to go to a performance (down here in Texas) of that Shakespearean play about Scottish (sort of) history.
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The Victorians believed an ancient legend, mysterious and enticing; that in the depths of Africa lies a place of fabulous wealth; a place where, were a man to find it he could have the entire piano manufacturing industry grovelling at his feet; I speak of the legend of the place where the elephants go to die.
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Hello children. Are you sitting comfortably? Then we'll begin. . .1
Once upon a time in a charming little cottage in the middle of the big wood there lived three and a half bears.
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It is a little known fact that Bashou Matsuo, the great master of that restrictive and elegant form the Haiku had but one great disappointment in life, that he never mastered the even more restrictive and elegant form of the Hairimeraku:
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The fridge was filled with the rich odours of, well just the sort of things you would expect to smell in the fridge of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty.
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Far be it from me to get involved in your election, but I must point out that those who have been trying to stop the recounts have got it dead wrong —they are missing the whole spirit of this trans-millennial age.
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