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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—Oh! No! That's over, lorst and gorne along with its surrounding Weekend Radio of fond memory! Now, deserted, I can only start rather pathetically...
My Dear To-Whomsoever-It-Concerns-es,
to add to my end-of-an-era woes, Georgia has left me and gone back to America.
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My Dear Americans,
Memory is a funny old kettle of terrapins, and as you get older it gets funnier. You mayn't remember what happened last Tuesday, or even why you just went into the kitchen, but thirty, forty years ago... well...
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My Dear Americans,
I have read in many places that it is advantageous to perform tasks with ones non-dominant hand. As I get older, and my dominant hand gets a bit shakier and its arm a bit achier, I thought it prudent to, as they say "'Ave a go!" |
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My Dear Americans,
I admit, right up front, that I am a utter, complete computer nerd—why, I even had a Venn Diagram outside my office, [Sigh] back when I had an office, that proved, or at least represented, that fact: that's, of course, if you happen to NEED more proof or at least representation of the fact than these my essays.
Of course that was in the ancient days of Then. Ah! those happy days of slaving away over a hot keyboard, churning out algorithms and code like a....well, like a nerd.
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My Dear Americans,
what was it Patrick Henry is reputed to have said, "Give me a cuppa tea, or give me death!" Of course that WAS before news of Boston Harbour's famous Tea Party had reached him, so it's a quite excusable sentiment, and indeed I have expressed myself similarly on many an occasion during my sojourn in America, and that's in spite of the fact that since the Boston Tea Party all tea in the United States has had a tendency to taste as if it came out of the aforementioned harbour.
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My Dear Americans,
 I visited our local 'Big City' the other day: Norwich1. It bills itself as 'A Fine City', not without some justification. It has two cathedrals (one of each), a castle and all sorts of other fine stuff. It also has a big railway station.
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My Dear Americans,
I'm sure you have heard of '', as an activity of bored youth in the countryside (and is there any other sort of youth way out in the sticks?), youth blessed with an unkind sense of humor and a vertical cow. Apart from the aspect of animal cruelty, not to mention animal embarrassment, it is a really, really dangerous activity; cows are big and mostly do not take well to being tipped, inverted, pushed over or indeed mucked about with in any way, and have fairly definite (and occasionally fatal) means at their disposal for registering their disapproval. And anyway it's all probably just an urban legend, so no worries. |
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My Dear Americans,
my last letter ended with a wail of anguish at all the work we are having to do on the house over here so, lest you think me merely exaggerating for your sympathy, let me tell you of the room at the front of the house that is destined to be my library. As soon as work started I discovered that the floorboards were infested by woodworm (the UK equivalent of termites, only sneakier and snarkier), indeed it was so infested that the only thing stopping me falling through the floor was all the woodworm holding hands. You could almost hear them singing We Shall Overcome!
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I fear this essay is going to completely destroy the caring, sensitive, nature-loving, liberal cred that (with a few exceptions) I have carefully developed and nurtured over the decades, but... but... I have just got to admit that I absolutely hate, despise, loathe, would happily chop up into little tiny bits and then make up rude songs about so-called ...seagulls. Oh! I suppose I have to admit that they may look sort of graceful as they fly, but that is only until they open their beaks or their bottoms and all Hell breaks loose, then they almost make pigeons or vultures look cute and loveable.
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is the closest I come to a motto, slogan, catchphrase or what-have-you, and I even have the teeshirt to prove it.
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