DIALSCAN: DETROIT, APRIL 27, 2009
Were it not for the fact that the Yankees and Tigers played tonight’s game like their buses were double-parked, I would not have the time to while away sampling Motor City radio. I won’t use this space to enumerate or even regurgitate the problems Detroit has had in recent times. I will tell you that Detroit, more than most cities, has found a salve for its depression in sport. At various times over the past three years, Detroit has hosted the Super Bowl, the World Series, the Stanley Cup finals, and most recently, record-breaking crowds at college basketball’s Final Four. Hopefully, there’s a similar salve on the airwaves…
Rather than end at an oasis, why don’t we start at one this time? We’ll begin at WRCJ-FM 90.9, which does classical music by day and jazz by night. The jazz begins wafting lazily through my surround-sound headset, as welcome as the soft night air. In a moment, I’m told by the Announcer, a gent by the name of Tony Mowod, that this is “My Nightly Soundtrack.” The gentle piano is replaced by optimistic, upbeat trumpets and horns. The fact that the Yankees lost tonight is quickly pushed to the back of my mind, replaced by the carefree sounds of what they in the business call “West Coast Jazz.” I smile from ear to ear, the day’s cares all but nonsense now. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, imagining this glory emanating from the stereos of Cadillacs and Lincolns and Chrysler 300’s up and down 9 Mile. My mind rides shotgun with sophisticated ladies in elegant black cocktail dresses and grinning gents in sharp suits. They don’t give jazz playlists on the website, it doesn’t appear, but the element of surprise works very much in WRJC’s favor. I’ll get back to this, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.
Aha! More jazz, this time over at WDET-FM 101.9, Detroit’s NPR station originating from Wayne State University. This has gotta be my lucky night. I come in just as Miles Davis’s So What is winding down. If this is what Detroit listens to at night, boy, have they got it made. I can only imagine what goes on while this music plays. Fittingly enough, I see that their Announcer tonight is a man called Ed Love, who has been kind enough to put on Miles’ marvelous All Blues, from Kind of Blue, the same album that contains So What. I have Kind of Blue in my remarkable CD collection. I sometimes put in the CD player and wake up to it, or try to at least. J God, I picked a good time to do the Dialscan. You should see the grin I’ve got on my face. Who needs that Twitter crap when I’ve got the power of stream-of-consciousness writing? Incidentally, I note that whenever I turn on WBGO in Newark or WUSF after 10:00PM in Tampa, Miles’ music never reaches my ears. Why is this? Is it just a matter of bad timing or is there something more to it? Whatever the case may be, anytime a radio station plays Miles Davis, you’re not catching lightning in a jar, you’re catching lightning bugs. Sooner or later, you gotta set them free.
Jesus, I’m having such fun with all this jazz music, I almost don’t want to leave either of these stations. I might just put it to coin-flip as to which of these stations I want to come back to. Everything from here on may seem like so much ennui, but out of fairness as much as anything else, I turn the dial anyway. But not before Ed Love turns up, his voice silky and arresting all at once. He asks me what I was doing when Kind of Blue first came out. My parents were in first grade, and I was between lives—I just know I was.
What’s in the news? WWJ-AM 950 will tell me. The UAW is voting to assume majority ownership of Chrysler Corporation; GM is discontinuing its Pontiac brand, which is a major shame; one of Detroit’s mayoral candidates is considering moving some of the slum-dwellers to less dangerous suburban areas and sealing off the slums entirely; according to WWJ’S website, there is an apparent case of Swine Flu, this year’s disease du jour, in Livingston County. By the way, just heard a fellow named Dave Bowers at Accu-Weather give the forecast for Detroit. I can’t help but notice that he does the same thing for 1010 WINS listeners back in New York. Apparently, so do Messrs. Eric Wilhelm, Carl Babinski, Kerry Scwindenhammer and Dr. Joe Sobel. I shan’t be the least bit surprised to hear the same guys reporting on weather in Los Angeles, Chicago, etc. Talent pool? Try wading pool.
Now my teeth are gnashing; the sports reporter just got cut off in mid-sentence. Doesn’t matter whether he was telling me to expect his reports at fifteen and forty-five after every hour or not, that shit doesn’t ride with me. So we press up the AM dial…
…to WDFN-AM 1130, a sports-talk station. More football talk. I guess it doesn’t matter what I say. People used to want their MTV, now they just want their NFL. And want, and want, and want some more, until they have wet dreams involving the league’s commissioner, and ever further beyond that. Meanwhile, baseball fans like me are left in the wilderness.
Some dummy on Air America Radio (WDTW-AM 1310) just called Rush Limbaugh a chickenhawk. Maybe so, but Rush Limbaugh has been on the air for twenty years, and this dummy, who apparently wants everyone in his listening audience to go meatless on Mondays, just lost me after less than two minutes. He will remain nameless, but he has the personality of a 1987 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera (in burnt umber, natch.)
As quickly as I come to WNZK 680 (or 690 in the daytime), that’s as fast as I leave, when a foreign troubadour turns up singing the same foreign troubadour song that’s been sung since there were such people as foreign troubadours.
I’ve hit rock bottom—attorney Mark Levin is on WJR-AM 760. I’m sure he’s pontificating about something and planning to sue the next person who so much as looks at him funny, so I don’t even bother listening. I’m going back to the jazz music. I was happier, you were happier, the antennae were happier.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
DIALSCAN BOSTON, APRIL 26, 2009
Before I start spinning the dial, will you indulge me as I tell you something semi-personal? Unlike many of the other cities on the Dialscan tour, I’ve actually been to Boston. Only once, but I’ve been there. One Saturday in June 1995, my sister and I landed in Boston, were greeted by our father and stepmother, and toured Fanueil Hall and the Freedom Trail. (To think that two hundred and twenty-four years and one week, give or take a few hours, have elapsed since Paul Revere got on horseback; shame that William Dawes doesn’t get the same press coverage.) Anyway, one of the stops we made was at the federal building, where there was a bronze statue of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. We took photographs climbing up and down JFK’s back, for we felt had license to do so. You see, the woman who designed and sculpted the statue of the Thirty-Fifth President of the United States of America was Isabel McIlvain. Isabel is one of my aunts. Connections like that are so profound and powerful that even the nod I am giving it does not do it justice. It hardly matters, then, that the statue of JFK has been moved to an isolated section of the Massachusetts State House, where children can’t climb on it.
With all of that in your hip pocket, those of you that live there know that Boston has a veritable smorgasbord of good radio for listening to, and WBZ-AM 1030 is as good a place to start as any. Browsing their website, I see that one of their personalities is a distinguished-looking chap by the name of Dan Rea, which triggers another childhood memory. When I was in second grade, at Woodlynde School in Stratford, PA, circa 1986, our teacher, a lovely lady named Judy Getz, would take us to the local library every so often. We were set loose among the treasure trove of books and one of the unpolished pearls that caught my eye was called A Day in the Life of a Television News Reporter. This book followed a youthful, hard-charging teevee reporter through the hallways of WBZ-TV and the streets of Boston. That youthful, hard-charging man was named Dan Rea. It’s amazing that a man can recall his boyhood with such opacity. But now I snap out of my reverie, to the sound of a steel drum being seemingly machine-gunned while the weekend morning man, a Rod Fritz, tells me that there’s a swine flu outbreak, among other things. I don’t need bad news, especially not when the stream is two minutes behind.
So let’s get over about three clicks north, to WBIX-AM 1060. WBIX claims to be “THE Business Station”. This apparently does not extend to the weekend; they are airing an outdoors show. This seems ever so slightly incongruous, given the fact that the host is more than likely indoors. If he were a true outdoorsman, he’d be broadcasting from the woods, pausing every now and again to assassinate a poor moose. Glancing at their webpage, I realize that I have just bagged on the founder and president of the National Radio Network, a man called Alex Langer. I apologize to Alex for my presumptiveness. Alex is now telling me it’s a beautiful Sunday morning. I look out my window and I believe him, but I wonder if Alex has a window in his studio so he can believe it.
All right; eleven minutes of this crap is quite enough. I have zilch interest in cat fishing. So we wander on over to WBNW-AM 1120, which looks like it has some cool stuff to listen to; interspersed with business talk are shows like The Journey of the Soul and Heal Yourself Talk Radio. I shall have to consider this when the tour comes back to Boston; maybe next time the internet won’t crash when I try to listen.
Boston has three sports-talk stations. The trick today will be trying to find one where the testosterone addicts aren’t talking about the NFL Draft; as if I truly cared who was doing what and going where. That said, we start with WWZN-AM 1510. The good news is that right now, there’s no one talking about football. The bad news is that right now there’s a sermon on. I spin the dial backward, praying to God that He can give me a radio station that I can listen to for more than five minutes at a time.
Let’s try WEEI-AM 850, which is apparently the flagship of a vast network stretching all across New England. Just now, a man named Michael Felger is talking about, yep, you guessed it, the ramifications of the NFL Draft. I want to come through the radio on this jarhead and tell him,“Football starts is September, you dingbat-dingleberry-doofusoid crankshaft. We’re in April! Talk about the Red Sox; it’s not gonna kill you to do so. Talk about the Bruins, the Celtics, the goddamn New England Revolution, if you must. But please, until late August, spare me the pigskin prognostication. It ain’t time for football!”
Mercifully, I won’t need to know if I’m shouting into the Massachusetts breeze, because WAMG-AM 890’s stream is unavailable for the moment. Perhaps that’s a blessing in disguise; it seems like little more than ESPN Radio’s feed anyway.
So now, we come to our oasis, WGBH-FM 89.7. A smart-seeming fellow called Brian McCreath has just introduced a piece by a Pulitzer Prize-winning composer Steve Reich called Eight Blinds. About a minute in, I find myself listening to this piece and wondering to myself, “For this shit, this guy won a Pulitzer Prize? Sounds like another Philip Glass wannabe.” Nearly all people who attempt classical music nowadays want to have the avant-garde sound that only Philip Glass has cultivated and mastered, but I nevertheless cannot stand. We move away from the relentless cacophony to their digital station, where you would think that a station as reputable and as legendary as WGBH would run a separate stream of classical music. Alas, it only seems that they’re running Mr. McCreath’s program on a delay. For such a reputable station, they sure don’t know the credo of “Hear and Now” all that well, do they?
Let’s go up the dial, before I go down the creek. On WTKK-FM 96.9, some earthy-sounding guy is coaching a hapless caller on how to deal with car salesmen. Sadly, his advice excludes the use of nunchucks, Chinese stars, mace or broken whiskey bottles. Evidently, he needs help doing this, because he has a sensible-sounding lady sitting next to him who has now piped up. Because WTKK is repairing its website, I have no idea, who these people are, how long they’ll stay on, etc. But, hey, at least it’s not sports talk. We just found out—it’s The Best Money Show in Boston. Well, I’ll take them at their word. This is, at best, filler. It doesn’t drive me to action, make me feel happy or sad—it’s fodder. Sunday morning fodder. I expected more from Boston, to be perfectly frank.
And so, I arrive at the last lighthouse, the one belonging to WCRB-FM 99.5. Fittingly, the Boston Symphony Orchestra is playing, and the Tanglewood Festival Chorus is singing, Brahms’ beautiful oratorio For All Flesh is as Grass from A German Requiem. At least they were, for it has just ended and been replaced by Mozart’s Symphony #41 in C, his Jupiter Symphony. It, too, triggers a memory. I can just see Diane Keaton piloting her VW Bug convertible, a nervous Woody Allen in tow, up to the cottage in the Hamptons while the sun sets on a Sunday.
And on this Sunday, the sun continues to rise.
Before I start spinning the dial, will you indulge me as I tell you something semi-personal? Unlike many of the other cities on the Dialscan tour, I’ve actually been to Boston. Only once, but I’ve been there. One Saturday in June 1995, my sister and I landed in Boston, were greeted by our father and stepmother, and toured Fanueil Hall and the Freedom Trail. (To think that two hundred and twenty-four years and one week, give or take a few hours, have elapsed since Paul Revere got on horseback; shame that William Dawes doesn’t get the same press coverage.) Anyway, one of the stops we made was at the federal building, where there was a bronze statue of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. We took photographs climbing up and down JFK’s back, for we felt had license to do so. You see, the woman who designed and sculpted the statue of the Thirty-Fifth President of the United States of America was Isabel McIlvain. Isabel is one of my aunts. Connections like that are so profound and powerful that even the nod I am giving it does not do it justice. It hardly matters, then, that the statue of JFK has been moved to an isolated section of the Massachusetts State House, where children can’t climb on it.
With all of that in your hip pocket, those of you that live there know that Boston has a veritable smorgasbord of good radio for listening to, and WBZ-AM 1030 is as good a place to start as any. Browsing their website, I see that one of their personalities is a distinguished-looking chap by the name of Dan Rea, which triggers another childhood memory. When I was in second grade, at Woodlynde School in Stratford, PA, circa 1986, our teacher, a lovely lady named Judy Getz, would take us to the local library every so often. We were set loose among the treasure trove of books and one of the unpolished pearls that caught my eye was called A Day in the Life of a Television News Reporter. This book followed a youthful, hard-charging teevee reporter through the hallways of WBZ-TV and the streets of Boston. That youthful, hard-charging man was named Dan Rea. It’s amazing that a man can recall his boyhood with such opacity. But now I snap out of my reverie, to the sound of a steel drum being seemingly machine-gunned while the weekend morning man, a Rod Fritz, tells me that there’s a swine flu outbreak, among other things. I don’t need bad news, especially not when the stream is two minutes behind.
So let’s get over about three clicks north, to WBIX-AM 1060. WBIX claims to be “THE Business Station”. This apparently does not extend to the weekend; they are airing an outdoors show. This seems ever so slightly incongruous, given the fact that the host is more than likely indoors. If he were a true outdoorsman, he’d be broadcasting from the woods, pausing every now and again to assassinate a poor moose. Glancing at their webpage, I realize that I have just bagged on the founder and president of the National Radio Network, a man called Alex Langer. I apologize to Alex for my presumptiveness. Alex is now telling me it’s a beautiful Sunday morning. I look out my window and I believe him, but I wonder if Alex has a window in his studio so he can believe it.
All right; eleven minutes of this crap is quite enough. I have zilch interest in cat fishing. So we wander on over to WBNW-AM 1120, which looks like it has some cool stuff to listen to; interspersed with business talk are shows like The Journey of the Soul and Heal Yourself Talk Radio. I shall have to consider this when the tour comes back to Boston; maybe next time the internet won’t crash when I try to listen.
Boston has three sports-talk stations. The trick today will be trying to find one where the testosterone addicts aren’t talking about the NFL Draft; as if I truly cared who was doing what and going where. That said, we start with WWZN-AM 1510. The good news is that right now, there’s no one talking about football. The bad news is that right now there’s a sermon on. I spin the dial backward, praying to God that He can give me a radio station that I can listen to for more than five minutes at a time.
Let’s try WEEI-AM 850, which is apparently the flagship of a vast network stretching all across New England. Just now, a man named Michael Felger is talking about, yep, you guessed it, the ramifications of the NFL Draft. I want to come through the radio on this jarhead and tell him,“Football starts is September, you dingbat-dingleberry-doofusoid crankshaft. We’re in April! Talk about the Red Sox; it’s not gonna kill you to do so. Talk about the Bruins, the Celtics, the goddamn New England Revolution, if you must. But please, until late August, spare me the pigskin prognostication. It ain’t time for football!”
Mercifully, I won’t need to know if I’m shouting into the Massachusetts breeze, because WAMG-AM 890’s stream is unavailable for the moment. Perhaps that’s a blessing in disguise; it seems like little more than ESPN Radio’s feed anyway.
So now, we come to our oasis, WGBH-FM 89.7. A smart-seeming fellow called Brian McCreath has just introduced a piece by a Pulitzer Prize-winning composer Steve Reich called Eight Blinds. About a minute in, I find myself listening to this piece and wondering to myself, “For this shit, this guy won a Pulitzer Prize? Sounds like another Philip Glass wannabe.” Nearly all people who attempt classical music nowadays want to have the avant-garde sound that only Philip Glass has cultivated and mastered, but I nevertheless cannot stand. We move away from the relentless cacophony to their digital station, where you would think that a station as reputable and as legendary as WGBH would run a separate stream of classical music. Alas, it only seems that they’re running Mr. McCreath’s program on a delay. For such a reputable station, they sure don’t know the credo of “Hear and Now” all that well, do they?
Let’s go up the dial, before I go down the creek. On WTKK-FM 96.9, some earthy-sounding guy is coaching a hapless caller on how to deal with car salesmen. Sadly, his advice excludes the use of nunchucks, Chinese stars, mace or broken whiskey bottles. Evidently, he needs help doing this, because he has a sensible-sounding lady sitting next to him who has now piped up. Because WTKK is repairing its website, I have no idea, who these people are, how long they’ll stay on, etc. But, hey, at least it’s not sports talk. We just found out—it’s The Best Money Show in Boston. Well, I’ll take them at their word. This is, at best, filler. It doesn’t drive me to action, make me feel happy or sad—it’s fodder. Sunday morning fodder. I expected more from Boston, to be perfectly frank.
And so, I arrive at the last lighthouse, the one belonging to WCRB-FM 99.5. Fittingly, the Boston Symphony Orchestra is playing, and the Tanglewood Festival Chorus is singing, Brahms’ beautiful oratorio For All Flesh is as Grass from A German Requiem. At least they were, for it has just ended and been replaced by Mozart’s Symphony #41 in C, his Jupiter Symphony. It, too, triggers a memory. I can just see Diane Keaton piloting her VW Bug convertible, a nervous Woody Allen in tow, up to the cottage in the Hamptons while the sun sets on a Sunday.
And on this Sunday, the sun continues to rise.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
DIALSCAN: NEW YORK, APRIL 19, 2009
At 6:50AM, one remembers the strangest things. Not so long ago, and not that I remember the circumstances, but I found myself listening to a bit of a song called Sunday in New York. Mel Torme was singing it, but originally it was written and performed by Peter Nero for a film by the same name, one of Jane Fonda’s very earliest. Regardless of who sings it, Sunday in New York is as catchy a song as it is off-putting. So let’s take a taste of what radio is like on a (very early) Sunday in New York.
1010 WINS claims that more people wake up to it “than to any other station in the nation”. Every hour on the hour, they say this. Alas, I wake up to my CD player and it plays the most glorious music in the world. I have woken up to bad news before and I have not even tossed aside the covers without weeping like a bereaved parent. No disrespect to them, but that’s how it is.
Over at WCBS 880, my summertime flagship station (three guesses why to those who know and love me the most), it’s CBS News On the Hour, which they now take care to record and make available to CBS Radio’s various websites lest you miss one. That’s kinda-sorta good for people who need their news fix, and kinda-sorta bad for radio purists like me who buy into the concept that radio is the medium of the “Hear and Now.” But that’s downstairs. Upstairs, in Studio 8B, Cameron Swayze’s dry, avuncular voice greets me warmly, before settling into the bad local news. It could be my imagination, but at one time, Cameron had a picture and bio on WCBS’s website along with most of the rest of the broadcasters. It’s not there now. He is, however, savvy enough to tell you as leads into a traffic report that “Now that we’ve got you in a new car, let’s keep it moving.” I like Cameron’s rhythm, too. Easy, fluid without rambling, paced perfectly for Sunday morning newsradio. It’s not the machine-gun pace at which Pat Carroll and Michael Wallace and company have to talk at this time tomorrow, taking turns talking, being forced to finish each other’s sentences in that canned sort of way.
I do feel sort of sorry for people who live in Manhattan, and up into the Bronx. They have to listen real, real hard to hear the birds chirp as the Sunday sun rises.
Oh, boy, oh boy, oh boy. As good as Cameron is, that’s as bad as the meteorologist, Christina Baker is. Either I’m catching Christina at the wrong time, which is entirely possible, or she has the disquieting tendency to up-inflect the end of her sentences. As if she didn’t know herself how warm or cool it will be today in New York? Doesn’t she know that particularly in newsradio, decisiveness means as much as the information she is giving? You gotta remember, you’re reading a man who has ears like an eagle. You better be clear and decisive when you’re giving me information.
Ugh. She’s at it again now, ten minutes later. I better change stations before I call WCBS and complain…
Over at Sports Radio 66 WFAN, I have no earthly idea what Bob Salter or his guest are talking about. But it has little, if anything, to do with sports. The conversation is glacially paced, too.
At WQXR-FM 96.3, I had hoped, reading the playlist, that Telemann had actually composed a concerto that lasted almost forty-five minutes in length. How naïve I am. Within ten seconds of turning WQXR on, the name Jesus gets mentioned. Jesus.
Over at WNYC-FM 93.9, for the first time in any number of years, I find Saint Paul Sunday. If I’m remembering this correctly, the program’s format was quite a bit different. Bill McGlaughlin, it seems to me, didn’t always invite classical artists into the studio to perform. Perhaps my memory is faulty, which to those who know me best, is not news. Just now a tenor is singing that “Pure genius/Makes us shiver.” I already know that. While this tenor sings things I already knew, I do some cursory research. Turns out this McGlaughlin chap was raised in South Philadelphia, and like me, is of Scottish ancestry. That being said, maybe I should think twice and give a listen whenever his other show, which I believe is called Exploring Music, airs over at WQXR. I should also think twice when I hear tenors singing about being warthogs.
I skip over WNYC-AM 820 entirely—if NPR’s Hearing Voices doesn’t drive me crazy, Weekend Edition will come on in four minutes and do a dandy job of it. So I try WNYC-FM 93.9-2, their digital station, where I join Cesar Franck’s Symphony in D Minor. This sounds nice. I can take this…
The best news of all is that the Franck was a live recording. I do so love when that’s the case. Sibelius now; The Tempest, Opus 109. Waves of drums and horns, rising and falling, strings and winds suggesting a world gone temporarily haywire, hints of little boats being tossed about out in large, raging seas, in stark contrast to the dawning of the Sunday that this writing has encompassed. And then the music quiets, the seas calm and the chirping of the egrets can be heard, a counterpoint to the solo flute. On it goes, while I lay down on my bed and float away…
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Up until now, these Dialscan features have shown, if nothing else, how very difficult it is to find something on the radio that an urbane, civilized, intelligent person wouldn’t scoff at. Let me give you some perspective. It is now 9:11AM Eastern Daylight Time. Had it not been for some marvelous classical music programming on WNYC2, the odds are better than average that this piece would have long since been posted and I’d move on to the next thing. However, WNYC may have jumped the shark with me on this day, for now they are airing a piece by an American composer I’ve never heard of called Roger Rubinstein. The piece is called State of The Union, it was probably written last week, and is being performed by a hitherto unknown chamber ensemble that probably understands all too well what the State of the Union is. Now I don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about.
So we make our last stop on the tour, crossing the GWB into Newark to listen to WBGO-FM 88.3, just in time for the obligatory test of the Emergency Alert System. A lot of good it’s done New Yorkers in this century, but that’s another story. My disgruntlement is leavened considerably when I hear a pianist swing into Chaplin’s Smile and the combo behind him begins riffing on it. Smile always makes me both happy and sad all at once. Sign of the times: the Announcer here this morning, a man called Dan Karcher, is also a production designer in the movies. There are worse things he could be, particularly nowadays.
So while Dan spins a George Culligan tune, I spin away into a glorious Sunday…
At 6:50AM, one remembers the strangest things. Not so long ago, and not that I remember the circumstances, but I found myself listening to a bit of a song called Sunday in New York. Mel Torme was singing it, but originally it was written and performed by Peter Nero for a film by the same name, one of Jane Fonda’s very earliest. Regardless of who sings it, Sunday in New York is as catchy a song as it is off-putting. So let’s take a taste of what radio is like on a (very early) Sunday in New York.
1010 WINS claims that more people wake up to it “than to any other station in the nation”. Every hour on the hour, they say this. Alas, I wake up to my CD player and it plays the most glorious music in the world. I have woken up to bad news before and I have not even tossed aside the covers without weeping like a bereaved parent. No disrespect to them, but that’s how it is.
Over at WCBS 880, my summertime flagship station (three guesses why to those who know and love me the most), it’s CBS News On the Hour, which they now take care to record and make available to CBS Radio’s various websites lest you miss one. That’s kinda-sorta good for people who need their news fix, and kinda-sorta bad for radio purists like me who buy into the concept that radio is the medium of the “Hear and Now.” But that’s downstairs. Upstairs, in Studio 8B, Cameron Swayze’s dry, avuncular voice greets me warmly, before settling into the bad local news. It could be my imagination, but at one time, Cameron had a picture and bio on WCBS’s website along with most of the rest of the broadcasters. It’s not there now. He is, however, savvy enough to tell you as leads into a traffic report that “Now that we’ve got you in a new car, let’s keep it moving.” I like Cameron’s rhythm, too. Easy, fluid without rambling, paced perfectly for Sunday morning newsradio. It’s not the machine-gun pace at which Pat Carroll and Michael Wallace and company have to talk at this time tomorrow, taking turns talking, being forced to finish each other’s sentences in that canned sort of way.
I do feel sort of sorry for people who live in Manhattan, and up into the Bronx. They have to listen real, real hard to hear the birds chirp as the Sunday sun rises.
Oh, boy, oh boy, oh boy. As good as Cameron is, that’s as bad as the meteorologist, Christina Baker is. Either I’m catching Christina at the wrong time, which is entirely possible, or she has the disquieting tendency to up-inflect the end of her sentences. As if she didn’t know herself how warm or cool it will be today in New York? Doesn’t she know that particularly in newsradio, decisiveness means as much as the information she is giving? You gotta remember, you’re reading a man who has ears like an eagle. You better be clear and decisive when you’re giving me information.
Ugh. She’s at it again now, ten minutes later. I better change stations before I call WCBS and complain…
Over at Sports Radio 66 WFAN, I have no earthly idea what Bob Salter or his guest are talking about. But it has little, if anything, to do with sports. The conversation is glacially paced, too.
At WQXR-FM 96.3, I had hoped, reading the playlist, that Telemann had actually composed a concerto that lasted almost forty-five minutes in length. How naïve I am. Within ten seconds of turning WQXR on, the name Jesus gets mentioned. Jesus.
Over at WNYC-FM 93.9, for the first time in any number of years, I find Saint Paul Sunday. If I’m remembering this correctly, the program’s format was quite a bit different. Bill McGlaughlin, it seems to me, didn’t always invite classical artists into the studio to perform. Perhaps my memory is faulty, which to those who know me best, is not news. Just now a tenor is singing that “Pure genius/Makes us shiver.” I already know that. While this tenor sings things I already knew, I do some cursory research. Turns out this McGlaughlin chap was raised in South Philadelphia, and like me, is of Scottish ancestry. That being said, maybe I should think twice and give a listen whenever his other show, which I believe is called Exploring Music, airs over at WQXR. I should also think twice when I hear tenors singing about being warthogs.
I skip over WNYC-AM 820 entirely—if NPR’s Hearing Voices doesn’t drive me crazy, Weekend Edition will come on in four minutes and do a dandy job of it. So I try WNYC-FM 93.9-2, their digital station, where I join Cesar Franck’s Symphony in D Minor. This sounds nice. I can take this…
The best news of all is that the Franck was a live recording. I do so love when that’s the case. Sibelius now; The Tempest, Opus 109. Waves of drums and horns, rising and falling, strings and winds suggesting a world gone temporarily haywire, hints of little boats being tossed about out in large, raging seas, in stark contrast to the dawning of the Sunday that this writing has encompassed. And then the music quiets, the seas calm and the chirping of the egrets can be heard, a counterpoint to the solo flute. On it goes, while I lay down on my bed and float away…
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Up until now, these Dialscan features have shown, if nothing else, how very difficult it is to find something on the radio that an urbane, civilized, intelligent person wouldn’t scoff at. Let me give you some perspective. It is now 9:11AM Eastern Daylight Time. Had it not been for some marvelous classical music programming on WNYC2, the odds are better than average that this piece would have long since been posted and I’d move on to the next thing. However, WNYC may have jumped the shark with me on this day, for now they are airing a piece by an American composer I’ve never heard of called Roger Rubinstein. The piece is called State of The Union, it was probably written last week, and is being performed by a hitherto unknown chamber ensemble that probably understands all too well what the State of the Union is. Now I don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about.
So we make our last stop on the tour, crossing the GWB into Newark to listen to WBGO-FM 88.3, just in time for the obligatory test of the Emergency Alert System. A lot of good it’s done New Yorkers in this century, but that’s another story. My disgruntlement is leavened considerably when I hear a pianist swing into Chaplin’s Smile and the combo behind him begins riffing on it. Smile always makes me both happy and sad all at once. Sign of the times: the Announcer here this morning, a man called Dan Karcher, is also a production designer in the movies. There are worse things he could be, particularly nowadays.
So while Dan spins a George Culligan tune, I spin away into a glorious Sunday…
Saturday, April 18, 2009
When the soul talks...
Today, I was driving up a long stretch of Florida road when my soul spoke to me in profound yet simple English. It said to me:
Dive.
Dive down deep.
Dive as deep as you can go.
Lock hands with someone you love
And dive as deep as possible.
You'll reach the sandy bottom
And the water will feel so warm and
goregeous on your skin
That you'll never want to surface.
You'll want to stay there forever
With the one that loves you the most.
This is not the first time I have heard this message coming from my deepest, most sacred place. Nor will it be the last. But I never heard the message with such clarity as I did on this day.
Forgive me, folks. This just had to be said. When the soul talks, you better take notes.
Dive.
Dive down deep.
Dive as deep as you can go.
Lock hands with someone you love
And dive as deep as possible.
You'll reach the sandy bottom
And the water will feel so warm and
goregeous on your skin
That you'll never want to surface.
You'll want to stay there forever
With the one that loves you the most.
This is not the first time I have heard this message coming from my deepest, most sacred place. Nor will it be the last. But I never heard the message with such clarity as I did on this day.
Forgive me, folks. This just had to be said. When the soul talks, you better take notes.
I LOVE HER
I love her
With all
My heart.
I love her dimples.
I love her moles.
I love her Edenic soul.
I love her eyes
And her face.
I love the grace
She handles herself with.
I love her.
I love her breasts
I love her curves
My respect for
The rest of her
Never swerves.
I love her breath.
I love her brain.
I love the music
We make
In the rain.
My heart cannot contain
The way I feel
About her.
I love her.
I love how strong
She makes me feel.
That’s how I know
Our love is real.
I can do anything
Knowing she’s there.
What a blessing she is.
What a gift beyond compare.
She holds my face
In her soft hands
And for that moment
Life is so grand.
I love her.
I love what she is
And what she means.
I love that she’s here
With me.
With every fiber
With every ounce
Of me
I love her.
I love her
With all
My heart.
I love her dimples.
I love her moles.
I love her Edenic soul.
I love her eyes
And her face.
I love the grace
She handles herself with.
I love her.
I love her breasts
I love her curves
My respect for
The rest of her
Never swerves.
I love her breath.
I love her brain.
I love the music
We make
In the rain.
My heart cannot contain
The way I feel
About her.
I love her.
I love how strong
She makes me feel.
That’s how I know
Our love is real.
I can do anything
Knowing she’s there.
What a blessing she is.
What a gift beyond compare.
She holds my face
In her soft hands
And for that moment
Life is so grand.
I love her.
I love what she is
And what she means.
I love that she’s here
With me.
With every fiber
With every ounce
Of me
I love her.
Monday, April 13, 2009
DIALSCAN:
So as you slide into your car after watching the Rays massacre the Yankees in their home opener (to my withering dismay), here is what you might hear, or not:
Beginning at WWBA-AM 820, with the Laura Ingraham show. She looks winsome and willowy enough, and to my highly trained ear, her conservative credentials seem to be in order. Now the bad news. Laura Ingraham is an attorney. I deal with enough attorneys in the course of my workday. I don’t need to deal with another at night. I don’t even wait for the end of the show.
So I move over to WHBO-AM 1040, where it sounds like a basketball game has just ended—some stevedore is giving the basketball scores, telling me that the Cleveland Cavaliers have home court advantage throughout the impending playoffs. Big Christforsaken deal. In any event, the incompetent board-op just cut off the stevedore by cutting to commercial. I pick up the remote control to my Sony HD Radio receiver and switch bands.
At WUSF-FM 89.7, my de facto home station, the relaxing basso profundo of Bob Seymour, the station’s jazz director, pours out of the speakers. He introduces I Can’t Get Started, with Sonny Stitt on tenor sax, among others. Here I take a note of pause to tell you that WUSF-FM comes billed nowadays as “Your First Choice for Classical Music”. Around here, it’s the only choice. But what a splendid choice it is. Many’s the steamy summer afternoon that I have tooled through the
My soapbox is wobbling again. So if you’ll excuse me while I put my feet up…
You just knew that couldn’t last, didn’t you? Bob’s gone and put on a piece by Sammy Figueroa, a Miami-based percussionist. Far too “smooth jazz” for my taste. So, because there is virtually nothing else on the FM dial in this Podunk, redneck, jerkwater burg that I wouldn’t run screaming from, we go back to the crackle of the AM dial.
At WQYK-AM 1010, which would run Yankee games were it not for the fact that it cheerfully insists on broadcasting USF college baseball to the four people who care, (three of whom are in the stands), we find the Tony Bruno show, also known as Into the Night. Tony, from what I understand, is a
This Dialscan ends as it full well should. Tony just put on a cut of Harry the K—that most marvelous of broadcasters, if not men—reading a poem to his constituents, ending with “
Chaplin was right. “Words are so feeble, so fragile.”
To a Man with God’s Voice
I was driving up North Florida Avenue in Tampa, FL, rushing back to my office, when I heard the news. With an almost sickly sweetness, the female Fox News Radio broadcaster told me Harry Kalas, the thirty-nine years’ running voice of the Philadelphia Phillies, had died at George Washington University Hospital in Washington, D.C., having been rushed there after collapsing in the visitor’s booth at Nationals Park. I had grown up listening to his Phillies broadcasts.
The historic description of Mike Schmidt’s 500th home run in 1987 did not leap to my mind, nor did the World Championship teams of 1980 and 2008. Harry’s narrations for NFL Films and Westwood One Radio stayed out of the way. What did come up was an unique grief, the kind Mitch Albom described Morrie Schwartz as having upon being told he had Lou Gehrig’s disease. I wondered, as Morrie did, “Shouldn’t the world stop? Don’t they know what’s happened?” I would have added, “Don’t they know God has gotten His Voice back?” Alas, Life continued on, coldly and cruelly. The FedEx man gave me two packages for me to sign and I trod up the office stairs.
Even now, I still don’t believe it. Traffic proceeds hither and yon up and down Howard Avenue, to and fro across Swann Avenue. Here at Panera Bread on the corner, people eat and talk. If I had told them one of the men I grew up watching and listening to had died not six hours ago, I would be met with a glimmer of sympathy by some, an indifferent shrug by others. I’ve had neither time nor space to properly process the sorrow
Back home in Philadelphia, where Harry lived, worked and made a difference in the community, the creeks and streams that feed the Schukyill River run with tears. Certainly my father and stepmother, who are both avid Phillies fans, pad around in disbelief. Chris Wheeler, Garry Matthews and Tom McCarthy, Harry’s partners, maintained a steady voice, although it must have been so difficult. I cannot even imagine Eileen’s, Todd’s, Brad’s or Kane’s grief.
Of course, the game went on. The fireworks of Opening Day (which it was in D.C.) went off, just like they were supposed to, just like Harry the K wanted them to. I just looked at the scoreboard. Although it must have been the hollowest victory in the 126-year history of the ballclub, the Phillies won, just like Harry the K wanted them to. Life goes on. Until we’re Outta Here.
I was driving up North Florida Avenue in Tampa, FL, rushing back to my office, when I heard the news. With an almost sickly sweetness, the female Fox News Radio broadcaster told me Harry Kalas, the thirty-nine years’ running voice of the Philadelphia Phillies, had died at George Washington University Hospital in Washington, D.C., having been rushed there after collapsing in the visitor’s booth at Nationals Park. I had grown up listening to his Phillies broadcasts.
The historic description of Mike Schmidt’s 500th home run in 1987 did not leap to my mind, nor did the World Championship teams of 1980 and 2008. Harry’s narrations for NFL Films and Westwood One Radio stayed out of the way. What did come up was an unique grief, the kind Mitch Albom described Morrie Schwartz as having upon being told he had Lou Gehrig’s disease. I wondered, as Morrie did, “Shouldn’t the world stop? Don’t they know what’s happened?” I would have added, “Don’t they know God has gotten His Voice back?” Alas, Life continued on, coldly and cruelly. The FedEx man gave me two packages for me to sign and I trod up the office stairs.
Even now, I still don’t believe it. Traffic proceeds hither and yon up and down Howard Avenue, to and fro across Swann Avenue. Here at Panera Bread on the corner, people eat and talk. If I had told them one of the men I grew up watching and listening to had died not six hours ago, I would be met with a glimmer of sympathy by some, an indifferent shrug by others. I’ve had neither time nor space to properly process the sorrow
Back home in Philadelphia, where Harry lived, worked and made a difference in the community, the creeks and streams that feed the Schukyill River run with tears. Certainly my father and stepmother, who are both avid Phillies fans, pad around in disbelief. Chris Wheeler, Garry Matthews and Tom McCarthy, Harry’s partners, maintained a steady voice, although it must have been so difficult. I cannot even imagine Eileen’s, Todd’s, Brad’s or Kane’s grief.
Of course, the game went on. The fireworks of Opening Day (which it was in D.C.) went off, just like they were supposed to, just like Harry the K wanted them to. I just looked at the scoreboard. Although it must have been the hollowest victory in the 126-year history of the ballclub, the Phillies won, just like Harry the K wanted them to. Life goes on. Until we’re Outta Here.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
DIALSCAN: KANSAS CITY APRIL 11, 2009
In a sporting mood to start off this trip—Yanks spoilt the Kansas City Royals’ home opener yesterday. The Royals have a lovely stadium which has a pretty backdrop that includes fountains and a tree-lined view of I-70; obstructed by a large HD scoreboard. Sometimes progress sucks.
I start at WHB-AM 810, which claims to house the World’s Happiest Broadcasters. I imagine people who do nothing all day but talk about sports are among the world’s happiest, albeit the world’s most myopic. Right now, a group called The Racinboy’s are discussing such things as radiator departments and frame rails. I have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about. My stepfather might; although he didn’t race stock cars, he raced motorcycles. This, of course, was years before he met my mother. As for me, if I spent all day watching guys race around a track over and over at speeds in excess of 200 miles an hour, I’d feel like I’d been in a centrifuge. Enough of these guys; although it’s only 9:34 AM EST, I’m now of half a mind to go buy some Hamm’s beer—after all, Hamm’s is Runnin’ Good.
So let’s see what’s going on at KCXL 1140. One guy is talking to another about his hardware store. It figures when the studio could pass for any of the other houses in suburban Harrisonville, MO., right on down to the two lawn chairs out front that you probably could see at any of the beach restaurants here in the Tampa Bay area. By the way, Tampa Bay is the next stop. Before the Electric Light Orchestra drives me nuts, I turn the AM dial for all it’s worth.
Here’s the classical music station—KXTR-AM 1660. Mind you, this is an AM station. Why in God’s name is Gershwin’s Piano Concerto and a myriad of pieces like it being heard on an AM station? A quick side trip to Wikipedia tells me that indeed, when it started broadcasting in 1953, KXTR was an FM station. But like I say, sometimes progress sucks, and so revenue declined. And so in 2000, the nefarious company which owns KXTR—they’ll remain nameless, they know who they are—took the world’s most beautiful music to 1270 on the AM dial. And only a couple years after that, to make way for an “Alternative Rock” station, KXTR was moved further up the dial to where it stands right now. With the advent of the HD Radio, the problem has been half-rectified, as KXTR has been set up at 98.1-2 FM. That’s why KXTR can sell itself as “Kansas City’s HD Classical Station”. But I feel sorry for people driving down I-70 in their Mustangs with the top down. In order to find the classical station, they gotta stop just short of breaking the knob.
All that having been said, it’s 10:00AM EDT. Excuse me for a moment while I marinate in this gorgeous music…
#################################
Well, that lasted a scanty ten minutes. I seriously dislike when the stream airs a commercial for a contest long since ended. So, we move on to KCMO-AM 710. Here, a man named Don Wales is telling the unsuspecting populace how to protect their retirement. Mainly, it sounds like it involves whacking people on the head with a No. 2 pencil. Okay. I can take about a minute of this.
So I give in and turn on KCUR-FM 89.3, which takes great pride in telling me that it’s My Source for NPR News. Not now, thank goodness. Right now, it’s Car Talk, with Tom and Ray Magliozzi, better known as “Click and Clack, the Tappett Brothers.” I seldom ever listen to Car Talk, but every time I do, I smile. It never fails. Tom and Ray, Click and Clack, Frick and Frack, by any name, they’re two of the sweetest guys on radio. Probably they’re the only two guys on NPR who come off like actual human beings, and not like they’re eternally hypnotized. Of course, some of you don’t agree with that stinging assessment, and if I offend you, I apologize. That being said, I could fill an entire Dialscan with a blow-by-blow account of the things I dislike about National…Public…Radio. But you’d…be…quite…bored. You probably already are. Listen to me. Twelve minutes of these guys and I’m already thinking like them.
See you in Tampa Bay, if I don’t already.
In a sporting mood to start off this trip—Yanks spoilt the Kansas City Royals’ home opener yesterday. The Royals have a lovely stadium which has a pretty backdrop that includes fountains and a tree-lined view of I-70; obstructed by a large HD scoreboard. Sometimes progress sucks.
I start at WHB-AM 810, which claims to house the World’s Happiest Broadcasters. I imagine people who do nothing all day but talk about sports are among the world’s happiest, albeit the world’s most myopic. Right now, a group called The Racinboy’s are discussing such things as radiator departments and frame rails. I have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about. My stepfather might; although he didn’t race stock cars, he raced motorcycles. This, of course, was years before he met my mother. As for me, if I spent all day watching guys race around a track over and over at speeds in excess of 200 miles an hour, I’d feel like I’d been in a centrifuge. Enough of these guys; although it’s only 9:34 AM EST, I’m now of half a mind to go buy some Hamm’s beer—after all, Hamm’s is Runnin’ Good.
So let’s see what’s going on at KCXL 1140. One guy is talking to another about his hardware store. It figures when the studio could pass for any of the other houses in suburban Harrisonville, MO., right on down to the two lawn chairs out front that you probably could see at any of the beach restaurants here in the Tampa Bay area. By the way, Tampa Bay is the next stop. Before the Electric Light Orchestra drives me nuts, I turn the AM dial for all it’s worth.
Here’s the classical music station—KXTR-AM 1660. Mind you, this is an AM station. Why in God’s name is Gershwin’s Piano Concerto and a myriad of pieces like it being heard on an AM station? A quick side trip to Wikipedia tells me that indeed, when it started broadcasting in 1953, KXTR was an FM station. But like I say, sometimes progress sucks, and so revenue declined. And so in 2000, the nefarious company which owns KXTR—they’ll remain nameless, they know who they are—took the world’s most beautiful music to 1270 on the AM dial. And only a couple years after that, to make way for an “Alternative Rock” station, KXTR was moved further up the dial to where it stands right now. With the advent of the HD Radio, the problem has been half-rectified, as KXTR has been set up at 98.1-2 FM. That’s why KXTR can sell itself as “Kansas City’s HD Classical Station”. But I feel sorry for people driving down I-70 in their Mustangs with the top down. In order to find the classical station, they gotta stop just short of breaking the knob.
All that having been said, it’s 10:00AM EDT. Excuse me for a moment while I marinate in this gorgeous music…
#################################
Well, that lasted a scanty ten minutes. I seriously dislike when the stream airs a commercial for a contest long since ended. So, we move on to KCMO-AM 710. Here, a man named Don Wales is telling the unsuspecting populace how to protect their retirement. Mainly, it sounds like it involves whacking people on the head with a No. 2 pencil. Okay. I can take about a minute of this.
So I give in and turn on KCUR-FM 89.3, which takes great pride in telling me that it’s My Source for NPR News. Not now, thank goodness. Right now, it’s Car Talk, with Tom and Ray Magliozzi, better known as “Click and Clack, the Tappett Brothers.” I seldom ever listen to Car Talk, but every time I do, I smile. It never fails. Tom and Ray, Click and Clack, Frick and Frack, by any name, they’re two of the sweetest guys on radio. Probably they’re the only two guys on NPR who come off like actual human beings, and not like they’re eternally hypnotized. Of course, some of you don’t agree with that stinging assessment, and if I offend you, I apologize. That being said, I could fill an entire Dialscan with a blow-by-blow account of the things I dislike about National…Public…Radio. But you’d…be…quite…bored. You probably already are. Listen to me. Twelve minutes of these guys and I’m already thinking like them.
See you in Tampa Bay, if I don’t already.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
DIALSCAN: BALTIMORE APRIL 5, 2009
Before this or any other dial gets turned, I would be remiss if I did not give a tip of the cap to Sarah Vowell, author of Assasination Vacation, The Partly Cloudy Patriot, and above all, Radio On: A Listener’s Diary, the book that inspired these blog entries. Admittedly, I only skimmed through Sarah’s book like we all skim through radio stations, but I pray that Sarah takes no umbrage. One other thing, and I realize this is akin to a boxer telegraphing his punches, but because I follow the New York Yankees like a bloodhound follows a murderer’s trail, as the Bombers go, so goes the Dialscan. Again, I hope you don’t mind.
There is one thing I wish to mention as I get into a crabcake state of mind, and my sister Sarah, who works at the Westin Key West, may find this interesting. It may just be my imagination, but the Westin BWI Airport, when viewed from Google Earth, looks eerily similar to home plate. Just a thought. Well, now that preliminaries have been safely dispensed with…
I start at WJZ-AM 1300, which is little more than ESPN Radio’s national feed. I think it used to feature local personalities, but apparently they have all migrated to a sister station on the FM dial, leaving us with the dictionary definition of blandness. I guess, however, that this only about seventy-five percent of the time. Just at the moment, two “local yokels” are discussing the fate of the Washington Capitals hockey team…wait a minute. They’re about done. Now it’s time for an NBA game. San Antonio vs. Cleveland. They’re about halfway through the ballgame. No excuse for that. I believe that if you’re going to broadcasr a sporting event, you should do so from start to finish. What’s the point of buying a ticket for half a game. You pay for four quarters or nine innings, you should get to watch or listen to all of it. I turn it off, if for no other reason than I don’t want to wander too far off track.
Maybe I’ll have better sporting luck with WNST-AM 1570—“We Never Stop Talking”. Some other testosterone case is talking to a caller who is pontificating about the American League East and who apparently eats, drinks and sleeps baseball. I love baseball above all sports, but unlike the doofus on the blower, I wouldn’t want to marry baseball. The man who’s hosting this exercise in how to waste time just identified himself, but he said his name so damn fast that I forgot what his name was—Bob Haney or Hiney or some such. At this point it hardly matters. He will shortly be replaced by another full-on gonad case.
Over at WCBM-AM 680, it’s John Katsafanas, a mortgage lender. He may as well be named Harry Baffalakakopuos or Frank Fishimmel; I pay about as much attention to hour-long mortgage sales pitches as I do Celebrity Ballroom Dancing. Which is to say, absolutely none. So I skip it entirely.
Eureka! WBAL-AM 1090. They’re usually good for something. Not today, however. They’re broadcasting Sporting News Radio, which is secret radio code for “We take Sunday Afternoons off.” At least they’re not like WJZ-AM, which seems to be the polar opposite—“We only work weekends.” (Side note: As a rule, I never listen to the other teams’ flagship stations. In Baltimore, that’s WJZ-FM 105.7. They might once have been interesting to listen to, as they used to be the Baltimore affiliate of The Don & Mike Show. But you know, painfully by now, what happens to all good things.)
Good Lord. Radio in Baltimore on a Sunday must be as barren as the Mojave in July. Over at WBIS-AM 1190, it’s more real estate advice. I can sum up my real estate advice to you in just one word: Rent. I skip that, too,
In every desert, there is an oasis. And so I come upon WBJC-FM 91.5. Classical music, pure, simple and no NPR aftertaste. I kneel, grateful and parched, like William Holden’s character in The Bridge on the River Kwai just before his rescue. Charles Ives’ Symphony #2, stars wafting through my Sony earbuds and I sip gratefully from my cup of lemon tea, and I lean back in my chair at Indigo Coffee’s Hyde Park branch in Tampa, FL. I’m grateful to have had something to distract me from the fact that outside, there is an art festival, where hundreds of cars made it almost impossible to find suitable parking, and where a thousand or so people and several tents are crammed into a tiny street.
I feel taken away, borne on a cloud of glorious musical notes, bound where angels roam, fairies dance and the real world seems benign at long last. When baseball season begins tonight and into tomorrow, I’ll feel like I’ve gone even higher…
Before this or any other dial gets turned, I would be remiss if I did not give a tip of the cap to Sarah Vowell, author of Assasination Vacation, The Partly Cloudy Patriot, and above all, Radio On: A Listener’s Diary, the book that inspired these blog entries. Admittedly, I only skimmed through Sarah’s book like we all skim through radio stations, but I pray that Sarah takes no umbrage. One other thing, and I realize this is akin to a boxer telegraphing his punches, but because I follow the New York Yankees like a bloodhound follows a murderer’s trail, as the Bombers go, so goes the Dialscan. Again, I hope you don’t mind.
There is one thing I wish to mention as I get into a crabcake state of mind, and my sister Sarah, who works at the Westin Key West, may find this interesting. It may just be my imagination, but the Westin BWI Airport, when viewed from Google Earth, looks eerily similar to home plate. Just a thought. Well, now that preliminaries have been safely dispensed with…
I start at WJZ-AM 1300, which is little more than ESPN Radio’s national feed. I think it used to feature local personalities, but apparently they have all migrated to a sister station on the FM dial, leaving us with the dictionary definition of blandness. I guess, however, that this only about seventy-five percent of the time. Just at the moment, two “local yokels” are discussing the fate of the Washington Capitals hockey team…wait a minute. They’re about done. Now it’s time for an NBA game. San Antonio vs. Cleveland. They’re about halfway through the ballgame. No excuse for that. I believe that if you’re going to broadcasr a sporting event, you should do so from start to finish. What’s the point of buying a ticket for half a game. You pay for four quarters or nine innings, you should get to watch or listen to all of it. I turn it off, if for no other reason than I don’t want to wander too far off track.
Maybe I’ll have better sporting luck with WNST-AM 1570—“We Never Stop Talking”. Some other testosterone case is talking to a caller who is pontificating about the American League East and who apparently eats, drinks and sleeps baseball. I love baseball above all sports, but unlike the doofus on the blower, I wouldn’t want to marry baseball. The man who’s hosting this exercise in how to waste time just identified himself, but he said his name so damn fast that I forgot what his name was—Bob Haney or Hiney or some such. At this point it hardly matters. He will shortly be replaced by another full-on gonad case.
Over at WCBM-AM 680, it’s John Katsafanas, a mortgage lender. He may as well be named Harry Baffalakakopuos or Frank Fishimmel; I pay about as much attention to hour-long mortgage sales pitches as I do Celebrity Ballroom Dancing. Which is to say, absolutely none. So I skip it entirely.
Eureka! WBAL-AM 1090. They’re usually good for something. Not today, however. They’re broadcasting Sporting News Radio, which is secret radio code for “We take Sunday Afternoons off.” At least they’re not like WJZ-AM, which seems to be the polar opposite—“We only work weekends.” (Side note: As a rule, I never listen to the other teams’ flagship stations. In Baltimore, that’s WJZ-FM 105.7. They might once have been interesting to listen to, as they used to be the Baltimore affiliate of The Don & Mike Show. But you know, painfully by now, what happens to all good things.)
Good Lord. Radio in Baltimore on a Sunday must be as barren as the Mojave in July. Over at WBIS-AM 1190, it’s more real estate advice. I can sum up my real estate advice to you in just one word: Rent. I skip that, too,
In every desert, there is an oasis. And so I come upon WBJC-FM 91.5. Classical music, pure, simple and no NPR aftertaste. I kneel, grateful and parched, like William Holden’s character in The Bridge on the River Kwai just before his rescue. Charles Ives’ Symphony #2, stars wafting through my Sony earbuds and I sip gratefully from my cup of lemon tea, and I lean back in my chair at Indigo Coffee’s Hyde Park branch in Tampa, FL. I’m grateful to have had something to distract me from the fact that outside, there is an art festival, where hundreds of cars made it almost impossible to find suitable parking, and where a thousand or so people and several tents are crammed into a tiny street.
I feel taken away, borne on a cloud of glorious musical notes, bound where angels roam, fairies dance and the real world seems benign at long last. When baseball season begins tonight and into tomorrow, I’ll feel like I’ve gone even higher…
Magic Time
The moments between “Action” and “Cut”,
The minutes between “Go” and “Stop”.
These are Magic Time.
The moment your pet licks your face
And curls up against your chest.
This is Magic Time.
The minute you put pen to paper
And express even the tiniest idea.
I call that Magic Time.
When you hold your best friend’s hand
When you make beautiful, blessed love
Truly that is Magic Time.
The second your child is born
And you see that it has your eyes.
Oh, my God, isn’t that Magic Time?
From the time you awaken and blink,
To the time you drift off to sleep,
Every minute in between
And even when you dream,
All of these are Magic Time.
The world doesn’t run on Eastern Standard,
Or even on Daylight Savings.
It runs on Magic Time.
If we all knew that,
If we all believed that,
There’d be no war.
No poverty.
No hate.
Say it to yourself
Before you say anything
Or do anything.
There is no time for anything…
Except Magic.
The moments between “Action” and “Cut”,
The minutes between “Go” and “Stop”.
These are Magic Time.
The moment your pet licks your face
And curls up against your chest.
This is Magic Time.
The minute you put pen to paper
And express even the tiniest idea.
I call that Magic Time.
When you hold your best friend’s hand
When you make beautiful, blessed love
Truly that is Magic Time.
The second your child is born
And you see that it has your eyes.
Oh, my God, isn’t that Magic Time?
From the time you awaken and blink,
To the time you drift off to sleep,
Every minute in between
And even when you dream,
All of these are Magic Time.
The world doesn’t run on Eastern Standard,
Or even on Daylight Savings.
It runs on Magic Time.
If we all knew that,
If we all believed that,
There’d be no war.
No poverty.
No hate.
Say it to yourself
Before you say anything
Or do anything.
There is no time for anything…
Except Magic.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Italian Dinner
Passersby on a lovely spring night wonder
About the two people outside in the corner
Eating prosciutto and pasta.
They walk along with their dogs on leashes
While the man sits by the door
And the woman sits in front of the vines.
What do they think when they see the youthful guy
Sipping on San Pellegrino
And the fortyish lady enjoying her Merlot?
Do they think the twain are married
As they dawdle along the sidewalk?
Is there something the couple has that they lack?
And as the sun sets and the chill begins
Is it harder for them to notice?
I hope so.
I know so.
For I am He.
And She
Is no more or less
Than my great friend.
And for two glorious hours,
We are the only two people
In the world.
Passersby on a lovely spring night wonder
About the two people outside in the corner
Eating prosciutto and pasta.
They walk along with their dogs on leashes
While the man sits by the door
And the woman sits in front of the vines.
What do they think when they see the youthful guy
Sipping on San Pellegrino
And the fortyish lady enjoying her Merlot?
Do they think the twain are married
As they dawdle along the sidewalk?
Is there something the couple has that they lack?
And as the sun sets and the chill begins
Is it harder for them to notice?
I hope so.
I know so.
For I am He.
And She
Is no more or less
Than my great friend.
And for two glorious hours,
We are the only two people
In the world.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Something to get you through the day
These two are excerpts from Marianne Williamson’s glorious book A Return to Love. If you (and more importantly, if Marianne will forgive me), the most important thoughts, those that speak for themselves are italicized. At least, I hope that’s how they come out:
“None of us are really objectively attractive or unattractive. There is no such thing. There are people who manifest the potential for sparkle that we all share, and those who don’t. Those who do are usually people who somewhere along the line, either from parents or lovers, were told verbally or nonverbally, ‘You’re wonderful and beautiful.’ Love is to people what water is to plants.”
“How could Leonardo Da Vinci not have painted? How could Shakespeare not have written? In Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke tells a young writer to write only if he has to. We are to do what there is a deep psychological and emotional imperative for us to do. That’s our point of power, the source of our brilliance. Our power is not rationally or willfully called forth. It’s a divine dispensation, an act of grace.”
Writing the Dialscan entry the other night felt just like divine dispensation to me. I cannot tell you the exhilaration I felt while typing the stream-of-consciousness thoughts and the almost orgasmic sensation of reading it later. So what if there were punctuation errors and redundancies. For the first time in I can’t even tell you how long, I felt that writing is what I was put on this planet to do. Anything else is a waste of my time and talent.
“None of us are really objectively attractive or unattractive. There is no such thing. There are people who manifest the potential for sparkle that we all share, and those who don’t. Those who do are usually people who somewhere along the line, either from parents or lovers, were told verbally or nonverbally, ‘You’re wonderful and beautiful.’ Love is to people what water is to plants.”
“How could Leonardo Da Vinci not have painted? How could Shakespeare not have written? In Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke tells a young writer to write only if he has to. We are to do what there is a deep psychological and emotional imperative for us to do. That’s our point of power, the source of our brilliance. Our power is not rationally or willfully called forth. It’s a divine dispensation, an act of grace.”
Writing the Dialscan entry the other night felt just like divine dispensation to me. I cannot tell you the exhilaration I felt while typing the stream-of-consciousness thoughts and the almost orgasmic sensation of reading it later. So what if there were punctuation errors and redundancies. For the first time in I can’t even tell you how long, I felt that writing is what I was put on this planet to do. Anything else is a waste of my time and talent.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)