Take the young man, Eugene Vapor, who did not understand that some questions were not meant to be answered, but were asked, as it were, to make a statement or gain some sort of effect. (It should be known that young Mr. Vapor also had a genetic resistance to sarcasm, one side effect of which was that Mr. Vapor was utterly convinced of everyone's sincerity.) Mr. Vapor often spent his days writing long letters (this was in the twentieth century) to questions he believed he was being asked, questions he felt needed prompt replies. Mr. Vapor of course died from an infection he received from an unprotected mailbox he happened across in an unpleasant part of town.
But should we condescend to (some might have said accommodate) the Mr. Vapors of this world? The answer is, if & only if they have a lot of money. Then it is, as expatriates in the Czech Republic say, de rigeur. Yet poll after poll taken amongst animals in the neighborhood reveal that people like Mr. Vapor do not listen to shows like Self Help Radio, which insists to ask & answer its own questions like some kind of pusillanimous politician afraid to take questions from Boy's Life & Sugar Tits magazines. But judging a radio show like Self Help Radio is easy; listening to it is the difficulty.
Noted rhetor & amateur garbage sculptor Semaphor Livid was recently asked as if he didn't already know why some radio shows need to ask questions & others felt comfortable simply supplying answers. A long, mostly riveting response about a late 70's Pink Floyd concert he missed & the botched back-alley tattoo removal that ensued entertained the paid studio audience even as the FBI surrounded the building. The crew who refused to film the event, complaining about the lack of proper lighting & copyrights, later informed wary passers-by that, yes, questions were often asked, but no, answers were not forthcoming. But was this betrayal?
In the previous selection (see previous selection), half a dozen abrupt landlords met with tenants & nearby hobos to inform them of new rights per pending legislation a continent away in California. Surprisingly, a modest fire was built right there in the auditorium & someone with the obligatory electric guitar (along with a multi-instrumentalist who had only brought her flute) sang long, sad songs about this or that flight of fancy in this or that youth. Then - & only then, because versions differ & memories are faulty but the most trustworthy report was from a guy who assures everyone he was totally there because he still has a burn mark from the electric guitar on his hypothalamus - the cry went up, & a hush fell upon the city, & while some have called it a religious experience, it was anything but, as prescription drugs were in the water supply.
Were was Self Help Radio in all this? It was, of course, huddled in its garage apartment, peering through spectacles smudged with filthy, music-listening hands. Doing what? you may ask. Oh, you know: asking questions it doesn't expect you to answer.
