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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 for a start, just what is that cold, wet, white crunchy stuff? I mean---All I did was to come back up north for a few days to visit various inlaws and outlaws and to break a few bylaws and to find I'm forced to stay indoors and (as it turned out) renew my appreciation of the Texas climate, because, well, there is all this cold, wet, white crunchy stuff. I, ...
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Tomorrow, the nineteenth of January, is Lisa's twentieth birthday!
Isn't that amazing!! . . .
Lisa, light of my life and so forth. Oh-Li-sa: the tip of the tongue of course not taking that inarticulately impossible trip of three steps down the palate to tap at three on the teeth---
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Well I've just made an heroic midwinter visit up to the cold-wet-white-crunchy-stuff-strewn wastes of New York---up to Rochester and then on to Ithaca to be precise and I actually managed to survive! I even (unlike the unfortunate participants in the amazingly terrifying total of about a dozen accidents we saw on the way back) survived without so much as a scratch.
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According to Boswell's Life the great Dr Johnston when observing the rapid re-marriage of a man who's previous married life had been far from happy came up with the great one liner that it was "the triumph of Hope over Experience" and this, not surprisingly, reminds me that last weekend I took the children to see the second film in the Lord of the Rings series.
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2002 is an interesting year, digitally speaking, being represented, as it is, by a palindromic number. Now I'm sure you know all about palindromes, those strange exercises in not having a life wherein someone spends absolute ages working out a sentence that reads the same backwards as forwards---Look for example at 'Madam I'm Adam' which took (according to some theories) all the time since the beginning of the world to work out.
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I was in the Coffee Shoppe with my daughter Rowena the other Saturday, Herebeorht having remained home busily (if that’s the right word) being a typically teenage lump in his bed. A lump, furthermore, that I wasn’t prepared to use enough nastiness to get up merely for the privilege of spending my hard earned money to buy breakfast for.
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Have you ever seen someone drop some hot buttered toast, maybe a slice of cinnamon raisin, say, or a nice whole wheat piled with blackcurrant jam, so that is goes splat, buttery (or jammy) side down, right onto their nice, clean, brand–new, pale but definitely not butter (nor, for that matter, jam) coloured carpet? And have you ever, then, immediately commented “Ah, observe the subtle and playful interaction of gravity and entropy!”
No?
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It's a pity that there is always what they call in the trade a "lead time" on these essays (and no I don't know exactly which trade that is, just some trade somewhere) and whichever trade it is it leaves what follows just a little bit less current ---or perhaps, as you'll see in a bit...
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I may have mentioned in the past how disconcerting it is for us would-be members of Britain's Noise Abatement Society when we come to the States. Whoever it was said "Walk softly and carry a big stick" must surely have been only a half American, why I bet he couldn't even shoot a bear---because big sticks aside this definitely is not a tiptoeing sort of a country.
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Oh dear! I have to admit it! I suffer from Xenaphobia. Now I know I'm English and you know that when we leave England the last thing they drum into us is that, wherever we are, it's the other guy who is always the foreigner and it's you foreigners that have the funny accent, never we English (unless, of course, we come from Newcastle or the like), and while we would never stoop to the excesses of patriotism that some country's citizens do, constantly waving it around, we just assume that the English are best and quietly know what sort of a passport God carries.
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