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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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For years I’ve lived off the fact that many (possibly even most) Americans “jest luuuv your English Accent”---(unlike my attempt at an American accent), and because of it will often defer to me, especially in matters linguistic.
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Last week I was back in London yet again but this time for only two and a half days before whizzing back to DFW---much more of this and I'm going to qualify as a member of the Jet-lag Set.
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Well, with all the zooching around the strato- and other spheres that I’ve been doing this summer, I’ve had a golden opportunity to watch a lot of the sort of movies I would not usually be caught dead watching.
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Urchchch!
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Oh! Blimey! The things I do get myself into!
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Of course I put the blame squarely on all that bra-burning back in the 60’s; but for a bit of perspective, and before we get to that, we need to step back a bit...
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To my undying shame, horror and (of course) secret pride I really don’t fit in down here in Texas.
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As regular listeners will know I am a rather frequent flier to the UK (and, of course, all points West) and that as a consequence of this I am well acquainted with pain; and with suffering; and with the results of the all encompassing fear of the unknown, and the unexpected, and the unpleasant, and the unfamiliar that accompanies these journeyings; and further that I’m often happy (if that’s quite the right word) to share these feelings with you---and anyway, come to think of it, I’m sure my regular listeners regularly suffer similar feelings when I do this, so they’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.
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This morning I was running my usual run and, about half-way round, was stopped dead in my tracks when I saw a plague of frog---there was just the one of it, but since it was initially hopping on the sidewalk, before heading purposefully towards someone's lawn, I figured that it must be a plague and that numbers don’t really matter in such things---I mean, look at it this way. I suppose that everyone from Ramses II to the CBS Weather Girl would agree that a million frogs hopping purposefully towards someone's lawn at four o’clock in the morning would constitute a plague, but then so would 999,999 and so indeed would 999,998 and if you follow my logic... well, in fact I think there’s even a song about it:
“999,998 frogs in a plague 999,998 frogs
“And one of them just hopped up your trouser leg
“So there’s 999,997 frogs in a plague...”
and so on, in rather finite regression, down to my solitary frog in a plague, just one solitary frog, and then it hopped away into the lawn, and like Pharaoh the day after one of his plagues, all I could do was to shrug my shoulders and continue my run; but it set me thinking.
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I’m sure that I made in this spot, in the past, the revolting admission that I have an unnatural attraction ...an attraction that is to folk song---and I don’t just mean, say, John Denver, or the artist who, had he been born 300 years ago, would no doubt have been known as Roberto di Zimmermanni1 ---No! No!! I mean thorough-going, honest-to-god, old-wavery-voiced, guy-with-a-hand-cupped-behind-his-ear-in-the-mistaken-belief-that-it-will-make-him-sing-in-tune Traditional folk music.
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