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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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Well, after a couple of days of play when we were doing quite well, Pakistan finally beat England in the second test, and a good thing too because we most emphatically beat them in the first match and it would never do to continue the series in that fashion.
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Last week my broadcast revealed an incredible insight into the Great American Psyche---no, of course I don’t mean that anything I said was the revelation, I mean what surrounded it.
If you remember last week dealt with the horror and danger of saying “MacBeth” and I apparently collapsed at the end of it.
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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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I suppose you might consider it to be a serious character flaw, but I just can’t stop myself from promoting dead people who are somewhat obscure, especially, and with really great delight, if they are deservedly somewhat obscure.
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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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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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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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One thing growing up in Britain gives one is a love of the past and of old ruins. I’ve found that as I’ve become older and more ruinous myself this love of the past has deepend and saddend...
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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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Indulge with me in a little Gedankenexperiment, a thought experiment, you know the sort of thing---wild hypothesizing after the style of the famous Schrodinger’s cat-in-the-box experiment.
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