When I started this blog, I was a mere stripling. I am not sure what "stripling" mean, but I read that phrase somewhere. I was actually in my late thirties when I started this blog, & I imagine that doesn't really fit with the definition of "stripling." But what can I do? I was home-schooled.
Actually, I was public-educationed, but I was public-educationed in the 70s & 80s, when it was so much better than today, so much so that being a dick about it is kinda mean. Like, Newt Gingrich mean. What I'm trying to say is, it's no excuse. I shouldn't use phrases incorrectly. I'm not a nineteen-year-old girl who has just discovered there's something called "the dictionary."
Or am I?
I spend too much time making excuses, & although I am famously lazy, I was mostly out of town today (in Louisville, if you must know) (also in the rain) (although it hit 70 degrees Fahrenheit today) (it's not at all wintry here) & when I got home I entertained some friends with vegan burgers & fries & episode of "The Wire." I barely had time to work on my radio show (which is about the year 1977); I couldn't have gotten around to editing my previous radio show.
Oh, there is guilt felt aplenty. Never doubt that. The guilt of thirty-six years ago is as fresh as smelling salts under my nostrils. It's not related to this blog which, it must be noted, was not even something I could have imagined thirty-six years ago (I hadn't even begun to think about light sabers yet things called "blogs"). But guilt feels like guilt & if anyone knows a great psychologist who works relatively cheap in the Lexington area, I'd love to talk to him/her/it. Seriously.
In the meantime - comic book movies. You know what I mean?
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
1977
My show this week is my birthday show (although my show this week happens six days before my birthday but what the hell am I supposed to do celebrate my birthday after my birthday that's just crazy) & every year since the start of my show on my birthday I've celebrated music from the year of my birth onward & now I've reached 1977.
I turned nine in 1977. I was in third grade when I did, in Mrs. Carnes' class at Caldwell Elementary in Garland, Texas. I wasn't much of a person. I was noisy, obstreperous, prone to flights of fancy, & deeply selfish. My mother raised her boys to be selfish. Selfish but tied tight to her apron strings.
At some point in 1977, we moved away from the part of the world where I had lived for as long as I can remember. In Garland, there's a road called Kingsley Avenue that "starts" in the east at the intersection of Centerville & Broadway. It travels west until, for no apparent reason, it becomes Walnut Hill road somewhere in the first few blocks of Dallas.
Two roads that intersect Kingsley Avenue - Saturn Road & Garland Road - form the barrier of where I had lived up to that time. My mother, recently separated & then, in 1974, divorced, lived in shabby apartments along Kingsley Avenue after her marriage fell apart. In 1977, we lived on a road a block parallel from Kingsley, called Cranford Road, in apartments called Little Brook. There were actually six of us - my mother, my little brother, my sister Karin, & two older brothers. Oh, & me. Possibly the least of them all.
After the school year, we moved "across town" - it was at best five miles, probably less - to an apartment complex on Fifth Street called Villa Cordoba. (Interestingly, it still stands, some thirty-five years later, & it's called Garland Oaks now, which is slightly ironic, because at this point the people who live there are overwhelmingly Hispanic. Not in 1977! There were possibly fewer than six black families at the time - the rest were white.) My mother's fear of the world kept us from riding our bikes to school every day - instead, she made our older brothers - who had either moved to the same complex or were already there - take us to school. My fourth grade year, I remember, was full of absences, as my brothers were incredibly unreliable. It didn't affect me much, as I was a good student & could catch up, but it was bad for my little brother, who was never terribly good at school.
One day I should talk about fourth grade. Mrs. Harris was a horrible teacher. It wasn't a good year. But not here. I wasn't in fourth grade then.
I wish I knew about my mother's financial situation & the really desperate straits we lived in, but of course at nine I had no real idea about anything. I loved swimming in the apartment's pool, although I needed someone there for me & my siblings would hardly ever do something that nice for their annoying little brothers - my sister (& de facto babysitter) Karin was all of 15 & boy crazy, & my two older brothers were deep into drug culture.
One of the first friends I made at Villa Cordoba was a girl named Christi, with whom I played "dolls," that is, I used my GI Joes & she her Barbies to "play house." It was quite thrilling for me & I imagine she was the first girl for whom I ever "felt anything," whatever that might mean. The boys who lived in the apartment complex, my little brother included, were generally very crude to her, though I didn't really understand what any of it meant. She was a pretty blonde girl - I can't for the life of me remember what she looked like, although I can remember exactly what the front of her apartment looked like - & her mother, who seemed more a grandmother - was very protective.
As anyone who's lived in apartments knows, tenancy there is transient. She was gone within the year. We, on the other hand, stayed at the Villa Cordoba until I finished the eighth grade.
None of the music I will play on my show this week is anything I was listening to at age nine. I liked listening to the radio, to what would later be called "classic rock." Sometimes I taped it on a random cassette, but it wasn't important to me. I hadn't discovered the Beatles yet. I hadn't yet been so alienated from the world that I needed to find far-away voices who sounded like me to speak to me.
But holy shit if I were self-aware there was some awesome music in 1977. The fact that none of my older siblings noticed or brought it home is a fundamental reason why we were never friends, & don't really communicate with each other in our adult lives.
I turned nine in 1977. I was in third grade when I did, in Mrs. Carnes' class at Caldwell Elementary in Garland, Texas. I wasn't much of a person. I was noisy, obstreperous, prone to flights of fancy, & deeply selfish. My mother raised her boys to be selfish. Selfish but tied tight to her apron strings.
At some point in 1977, we moved away from the part of the world where I had lived for as long as I can remember. In Garland, there's a road called Kingsley Avenue that "starts" in the east at the intersection of Centerville & Broadway. It travels west until, for no apparent reason, it becomes Walnut Hill road somewhere in the first few blocks of Dallas.
Two roads that intersect Kingsley Avenue - Saturn Road & Garland Road - form the barrier of where I had lived up to that time. My mother, recently separated & then, in 1974, divorced, lived in shabby apartments along Kingsley Avenue after her marriage fell apart. In 1977, we lived on a road a block parallel from Kingsley, called Cranford Road, in apartments called Little Brook. There were actually six of us - my mother, my little brother, my sister Karin, & two older brothers. Oh, & me. Possibly the least of them all.
After the school year, we moved "across town" - it was at best five miles, probably less - to an apartment complex on Fifth Street called Villa Cordoba. (Interestingly, it still stands, some thirty-five years later, & it's called Garland Oaks now, which is slightly ironic, because at this point the people who live there are overwhelmingly Hispanic. Not in 1977! There were possibly fewer than six black families at the time - the rest were white.) My mother's fear of the world kept us from riding our bikes to school every day - instead, she made our older brothers - who had either moved to the same complex or were already there - take us to school. My fourth grade year, I remember, was full of absences, as my brothers were incredibly unreliable. It didn't affect me much, as I was a good student & could catch up, but it was bad for my little brother, who was never terribly good at school.
One day I should talk about fourth grade. Mrs. Harris was a horrible teacher. It wasn't a good year. But not here. I wasn't in fourth grade then.
I wish I knew about my mother's financial situation & the really desperate straits we lived in, but of course at nine I had no real idea about anything. I loved swimming in the apartment's pool, although I needed someone there for me & my siblings would hardly ever do something that nice for their annoying little brothers - my sister (& de facto babysitter) Karin was all of 15 & boy crazy, & my two older brothers were deep into drug culture.
One of the first friends I made at Villa Cordoba was a girl named Christi, with whom I played "dolls," that is, I used my GI Joes & she her Barbies to "play house." It was quite thrilling for me & I imagine she was the first girl for whom I ever "felt anything," whatever that might mean. The boys who lived in the apartment complex, my little brother included, were generally very crude to her, though I didn't really understand what any of it meant. She was a pretty blonde girl - I can't for the life of me remember what she looked like, although I can remember exactly what the front of her apartment looked like - & her mother, who seemed more a grandmother - was very protective.
As anyone who's lived in apartments knows, tenancy there is transient. She was gone within the year. We, on the other hand, stayed at the Villa Cordoba until I finished the eighth grade.
None of the music I will play on my show this week is anything I was listening to at age nine. I liked listening to the radio, to what would later be called "classic rock." Sometimes I taped it on a random cassette, but it wasn't important to me. I hadn't discovered the Beatles yet. I hadn't yet been so alienated from the world that I needed to find far-away voices who sounded like me to speak to me.
But holy shit if I were self-aware there was some awesome music in 1977. The fact that none of my older siblings noticed or brought it home is a fundamental reason why we were never friends, & don't really communicate with each other in our adult lives.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
This Overwhelming Lickspittle Rag
I know, I haven't posted this week's show, my tribute to my lovely dog, George, yet. There are perhaps many reasons.
1) I'm lazy.
Well, hell, just come right out & say it why don't you jeez.
2) I'm still a little sad from the loss.
Which is true, but it shouldn't keep me from posting a radio show.
3) Aliens drank all my beer!!!!
I'm sorry, I have no idea who I am any more.
4) I have been vaguely busy & haven't found the time.
Yeah, maybe you'll buy that one.
5) I'm waiting for another show because otherwise the website will be lonesome with two shows on it for 2013.
Is that really true or is it...
6) I have to move the front page to a 2012.html file & change all the other pages to reflect that & it's not a lot of work but wah wah wah see # 1 above.
Good grief.
1) I'm lazy.
Well, hell, just come right out & say it why don't you jeez.
2) I'm still a little sad from the loss.
Which is true, but it shouldn't keep me from posting a radio show.
3) Aliens drank all my beer!!!!
I'm sorry, I have no idea who I am any more.
4) I have been vaguely busy & haven't found the time.
Yeah, maybe you'll buy that one.
5) I'm waiting for another show because otherwise the website will be lonesome with two shows on it for 2013.
Is that really true or is it...
6) I have to move the front page to a 2012.html file & change all the other pages to reflect that & it's not a lot of work but wah wah wah see # 1 above.
Good grief.
Sunday, January 06, 2013
Whither George's Show?
As I mentioned yesterday, I lost a great friend in my dog George nearly a month ago. This show is a tribute to him in the usual dumbass Self Help Radio way. He would have been very bored by it because it didn't involve treats.
George, we like to tell everyone, invented what was called the "pre-treat." Normally, we'd give the boys a treat after they do something good, like going outside to urinate or defecate instead of goofing around. But George later in his life had to be cajoled into actually going outside with a treat. So in effect, he got a treat before he did the thing that got him a treat. A pre-treat.
His name will go down in Beagle history.
It airs tomorrow from 7 to 9am on 88.1 fm WRFL Lexington, & online at wrfl dot fm. Later, it will appear at self help radio dot net. How much later I cannot rightly say.
I will probably cry on the air tomorrow. My apologies for being such a baby. But I really loved that dog.
George, we like to tell everyone, invented what was called the "pre-treat." Normally, we'd give the boys a treat after they do something good, like going outside to urinate or defecate instead of goofing around. But George later in his life had to be cajoled into actually going outside with a treat. So in effect, he got a treat before he did the thing that got him a treat. A pre-treat.
His name will go down in Beagle history.
It airs tomorrow from 7 to 9am on 88.1 fm WRFL Lexington, & online at wrfl dot fm. Later, it will appear at self help radio dot net. How much later I cannot rightly say.
I will probably cry on the air tomorrow. My apologies for being such a baby. But I really loved that dog.