The Adventure, Part VII: CD or Not CD

The Marin Memorial Veterans Auditorium is a growth of concrete situated on the shore of a lagoon. Lit up like a concrete growth, its image shimmered in the waters around it. Being extremely early, we found a great parking spot and were prowling around the lobby in a matter of moments.

There was the inevitable bar, a good forty-footer, whose management had demonstrated a fundamental grasp of planning and logistics by running low on premium items before the audience actually showed up. I thought about getting a beer, but they were down to Sludge, Sludge Lite, and Sludge Draft. Strangely, Sludge Draft was in bottles and plain old Sludge was on tap. Having an allergy to chemical-induced brewing techniques, I sauntered on to the next area, where, it turned out the souvenirs were being hawked.

The items for sale were laid out on a plain folding table--t-shirts, mainly, and a couple of license plate holders, and a few signed CDs. Since I had been looking to buy one of The Firesign Theatre’s more recent albums, “Boom Dot Bust,” for a while, this seemed like it would be as good an opportunity as any. There was one copy, festooned with the autographs of each of the four. “How much?” I asked the young lady who was picking through boxes behind the table.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m not sure. They haven’t set the price yet.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Boy, I’ve been looking to buy one of these. Sure would like to buy this.”

“They should tell us pretty soon,” she replied.

Perhaps someone was waiting for an E-Bay auction to expire or trying to get a fix on the day’s trends on the Nikkei. I couldn’t be sure, but market forces are mysterious things, and loathe am I to mess with forces of any kind. I put the CD back on the table and made a silent appointment with it for later.

Mark and Bernie were also picking through the merchandise by this point, but their browsing came to naught as well. We wandered back out toward the bar, where quite the crowd had gathered, mostly middle-aged and white, the kind of folks who had thought of property as a crime until they started getting mortgages on some.

Now, I don’t want to paint myself as being some kind of pioneer or something, but I was suffering from mild agoraphobia long before it became the TV disease of the week. Milling in the midst of a crowd of strangers quickly turns into a scene from a surrealist film with the sound of my pulse beating in my throat and ears as the score. Therefore, it didn’t take more than two minutes before I had to beat a hasty retreat back to the souvenir room.

Fortunately, this neurotic outbreak paid nice dividends when I returned to the table to find that the CDs were now priced, and that the autographed “Boom Dot Bust” in question was only 25 simoleons. Before anyone else could bid on it, I whipped out my check card. “I’m sorry,” the young woman said. “We’re only taking cash.”

“I can do that,” I said, and thrust the money I had originally set aside for the bridge toll at her. She took it. I took my CD.

“So, you got it?” Bernie was beside me.

“Yeah. I was going to buy it anyway, so why not?” Then I thought. “How much is the toll across the bridge?”

“Five dollars.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m going to have to stop and get some cash tomorrow.”

His wallet was out. “Here,” he said, thrusting a bill my way.

“No, I’ll be fine. I’ll just stop.”

The negotiations continued for a moment or two. I won’t reveal what the result was, although I don’t remember having to stop for cash on my way out.

Mark joined us, and we decided that it was time to go ahead and claim our seats. Since they had reserved theirs a mere months before I had bought mine, they were sitting somewhat closer to the stage. They made their way to the orchestra, and I climbed the stairs to a section called something like “Orchestra Plus.”

Tomorrow, Part VII: The Voodoo That They Do

The Adventure, Part VI: I Left My Cell Phone in San Francisco

Having said, “He’s here!” and having greeted me warmly, Mark disappeared like the pantsless Internet wraith that he was. I collected my meager belongings and climbed the stairs to the second level.

Mark’s room was directly at the top of the stairway. The door was slightly ajar, and I could see the dim motel room light reflecting off the bedspread. Feeling a bit like Philip Marlowe, I tapped at the door. A shadow moved about on the other side. Before apprehension could replace exhaustion, the door swung open, and I was confronted with Bernie, the other Internet wraith.

He was about my height, trim, curly-haired, and wearing pants. He smiled warmly and offered his hand, greeted me and invited me in. Mark emerged from an alcove-cum-dressing area, properly dressed. “Sorry about that, but I wasn’t wearing any pants,” he said. He was approximately 11 feet tall.

We exchanged pleasantries, and Bernie offered me a plastic cup of wine. I demurred because I was still on East Coast time and was afraid of falling asleep during the show or of being removed from the audience when the combination of alcohol and jet lag led me to shout out, “We love you, Phil!” during an inconvenient moment of the performance.

After a quick confab, we determined our plan. I would go and call my wife and shower (this last, curiously, Mark’s suggestion), then we would reconvene and do something—maybe get dinner or overlook the bridge. Bernie took refuge in his room, and I dragged myself down to mine.

As I unpacked my show shirt and my deodorant, I discovered that my cell phone wasn’t in my bag. I checked my pockets and rummaged through the pile of debris I had accumulated on my trip. I went down to the car and searched it. Nothing. Fortunately, the airline had recompensed me with a five-minute phone card for the inconvenience of being shuttled around the country willy-nilly, and my wife and I were able to communicate long enough to determine that the cell phone hadn’t been used and wasn’t being answered. We were out one phone, but still hoped that it would turn up at the car rental agency or the airport. (It didn’t. My wife made the sacrifice and got a camera-cell phone, and I got hers. Perhaps the old phone grew despondent and threw its troubles off the Golden Gate Bridge. Nobody knows.—ed.)

I showered and put on my going-to-see-a-show shirt, and the three of us reconvened in Mark’s room, which was quickly becoming our nerve center. Within minutes, we were able to determine that Mark wasn’t hungry, Bernie would eat if I did, and that my stomach thought it was after 9:00 p.m. and was expecting to be parked in front of the TV at home. We compromised by deciding to go straight to the venue.

Mark volunteered to drive, Bernie volunteered to navigate, and I volunteered to criticize from the back. We piled into Mark’s car and inserted ourselves into the bustle of San Rafael’s social whirl.

Despite having at least two sets of directions and three nominally intelligent people to decipher them, we managed to get lost not once, but twice. This was on a trip that covered all of about a mile-and-a-quarter. We were working together as a team; unfortunately, it was a really crummy team, one that always finished last. Despite our collective incompetence, we arrived at the Marin Veterans Memorial Auditorium with something over an hour to spare.

Tomorrow, Part VII: In the Presence

The Adventure, Part V: It's Easy to Go Home Again If You Go Fast Enough

Nostalgia (which is preferable to neuralgia) swept over me as I took in the sight of the trees and houses on the hills of South San Francisco and San Bruno. Traffic, by Atlanta standards, was nonexistent, the freeway was wide and pothole-free, and I approached the southern edge of The City with both trepidation and glee.

As the freeway gets to San Francisco, it changes suddenly, like a jump cut in a dream, to being just a city street with parked cars and homes and streetcar tracks. A horde of commuters waited on a train platform built in a faux-Chinese style. Teenagers meandered across the street in a small pack. Traffic moved easily from red light to red light.

In a few minutes, I was entering Golden Gate Park. I thought of Spreckles Lake, which was really more like Spreckles Puddle, a mile or two to the west. My model ship had sunk there in its ill-fated maiden voyage during the one year we lived on 36th Avenue, and George Harrison had led a crowd of sycophants, fans, and Hell’s Angels past there while I was wallowing in my ignorance of this great event some half-a-block away.

And then, the street signs. Balboa, the street one of my schools was on; Geary, the street on which we sat in a pizzeria and watched the smoke from the Cliff House fire drift overhead; California Street, the thoroughfare from which my brother and I would run like maniacs to catch our connecting bus on Geary on school mornings.

I only caught fleeting glimpses of the Presidio as I sped under it and through it, but I had already come to a decision. I had to come back and bring my wife and son with me.

My driver’s ed teacher, many years ago, had instilled in me the notion that drivers should always plan ahead. Just think of how proud he would have been had he seen me, in the airport parking garage, place a wad of cash on the front passenger seat in anticipation of paying a toll to cross the Golden Gate Bridge some 20 miles away. Okay, maybe the word isn’t “proud”; maybe it’s “concerned.” But that is neither here nor there because I was prepared.

Well, imagine my surprise when I rounded the bend to get on the bridge and saw a sign reading, “No Toll Northbound Lanes.” The northbound tollbooths of my youth were empty, forlorn. It’s a good thing my boyhood ambition to be a toll-taker on the Golden Gate Bridge went unfulfilled. I’d probably be out of a job now.

The bridge itself was The Bridge, stately, magnificent, and thrilling. I envied the tourists who walked along it, even the guy who was testing the tensile strength of the cables by tugging on one. I stole a quick glance out toward the endless Pacific and imbibed its beauty.

My next challenge involved finding the right exit off the freeway Californians call “The One-O-One.” Dividing my attention between driving and consulting the directions I had printed off Yahoo!, I was able to determine that I was supposed to take the exit for the Richmond Bridge and I-580. I saw a sign that said something about the Richmond Bridge. I took the exit. There didn’t appear to be any I-580 at the bottom of the ramp, so when the light turned green, I just went straight ahead to the on-ramp and got back on “The One-O-One.” The correct exit was a mile or so further along.

I got lost at first, and had my suspicion concerning this confirmed for me when I got to a dead end in a subdivision, Stepford Village or something like that. I retraced my steps and found the motel, after having been forced onto a couple of side streets because of a strange local custom involving terminating lanes for no apparent reason. I checked in, got my key card, and was informed that my Internet associates, Mark and Bernie, had been asking for me.

I parked the car and removed myself and my things from it. As I closed the car door, I heard a voice from above. It was Mark, standing at the rail of the walkway on the second floor. He didn’t seem to be wearing any pants.

Tomorrow, Part VI: The Show

The Adventure, Part IV, or Joseph K. Rents a Car

The amazing thing about the San Francisco airport, to me, is that I ever managed to find my way out of it. The signs posted never tell you to turn here; the place you wanted just drops away, and you’re left to wander endlessly like the Flying Dutchman. Had it not been for the kindness of a succession of strangers, I’m pretty sure that I would still be looking for the tram to the car rental agencies, already semi-legendary and entirely doomed.

And yet, get to the car rental agency I did. The agent asked where I was headed, and I told him San Rafael. He winced and said in the voice of one who had seen too much, “Oooh. It’s rush hour. Traffic’s pretty bad. It’ll take you at least an hour.”

I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I’m from Atlanta, G-A, where it sometimes takes an hour to get out of the driveway and into traffic. Getting over 30 miles through the middle of a city at rush hour in 60 minutes is our equivalent to teleportation. Savoring my smugness, I gathered my belongings and the various folders and documents he had assembled for me and found my way to the parking garage to get the car.

Now, perhaps I’ve led a sheltered life, but in my experience of renting cars, a particular vehicle was always either driven up or pointed out. That was the car that had been determined by some higher power that I should drive until I returned it with the gas tank full some time later. But that’s not how these Northern California free spirits worked. As I walked out into the parking deck, the guy who passes out the cars said to me, “What are you getting? A medium?” (I swear. He didn’t say “midsize.” He said “medium” like I was ordering a coffee. And then I looked up at the sign dangling from the ceiling. It said “medium,” too. I wasn’t in Oz anymore.)

So, he points to a selection of vehicles and says, “Just take any one of those.” No higher power. No computer matching of driver to ride. Just my questionable knowledge of automobiles and color preferences to guide me. A vague, Kafkaesque feeling burbled up inside me. Which would it be? I am a foreigner. An alien. I must be as inconspicuous as possible. But wait! What’s this? A red Grand Am? Hot spit! I want one!

I got in the car and put my belongings in the passenger seat. I turned the key, and it started, purring like the proverbial kitten. Like ice cream melting in a microwave, I could feel myself change. Or maybe it was like Kool-Aid in the freezer, because I was getting cooler by the second. The windows were open, so I pulled on the switches to power them closed. And nothing happened.

I pushed down on the switches. Nothing. I tried them separately. Zero. In a matter of seconds, my self image went from the “James Bond” setting to somewhere around “Mortimer Snerd.” I turned off the car, gathered my things, and proceeded to a nice, almost invisible vehicle a couple of spaces down.

It wasn’t a Grand Am. In fact, I wasn’t quite sure what model it was. It didn’t say on the front or the back. I got in and looked at the glove box. Nothing. So I looked at the steering wheel. Apparently, I was driving a Chevy Airbag. Fortified with this knowledge, I started it up, checked the power windows to make sure that they worked, put it in gear, and sallied forth to meet my fate.

Tomorrow, Part V: You Can’t Get There from He—Oh, Wait, Yes You Can

The Adventure, Part III or "Twin Cities? I Thought You Said Twin...."

“I was booked on the flight to San Francisco,” I said to the lady behind the counter. She asked for my name and looked up my new itinerary.

“They put you on a flight to Minneapolis,” she said. Minneapolis. About a thousand miles north and approximately 16 feet west of where I was standing. “You have a connecting flight from there.” She printed out my new boarding passes and pointed me in the direction of the gate I needed to be at. The flight to Minneapolis was already boarding.

My newly recovered track skills were once again put to the test, packs of skinny people parting around me like the wake around the hull of a boat. When I regained self-consciousness, I found myself seated on a plane as it meandered around the tarmac in Memphis.

We followed the Mississippi north, farmland splayed out on either side of it, seemingly without end. The cabin crew distributed drinks and snacks with feverish abandon. I tried to recover as much of a sense of my own being as I could scrape together in order to plan my next moves, all of which were essentially out of my hands.

Once I had deplaned or unplaned or plain gotten off the plane, I did what I always do. (No, after that.) I found the gate for my next flight. During my copious free time in Memphis, I had been able to phone my wife to ask her to email Mark to let him know that I was running late and to give him my cell phone number. As a result, I landed with a couple of voice mail messages waiting, and Mark and I were able to make voice-to-voice contact for the first time.

Having loads of time to kill, I made my way to the inevitable Food Court and got some of the worst overpriced Chinese food I’ve ever experienced. In fact, it would have been lousy even if it were underpriced. After I coughed up the ransom for my tray of food, I started, with shark-like intensity, to scan the area for an open seat. I saw one facing the window, a barstool-adjacent-to-a-counter sort of arrangement, and made a beeline for it. As I got to the spot, I noticed a woman shepherding her son in the same general direction. Since there were two spots open, I pulled up short and started to scan for a new haunt.

“Sit down,” she said.

“No, I’m fine,” I said.

“Sit down!” she said with the vehemence of a woman who had been trapped in a confined space with a small boy for several hours.

I acquiesced, feeling guilty throughout my miserable repast and convinced that she was sending hate rays my way with every coo and correction she showered on her boy. “Indigestion be damned!” became my motto, and I bolted both the food and the place as quickly as possible.

Back at the gate, I called my boss. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Minneapolis,” I replied.

“What?!” came the response. I couldn’t have agreed more.

At last, the cattle call for boarding was started, and, having been put in the emergency aisle by the airline, I got to slip past even the first class passengers and those with children and disabilities. I was on my way to San Francisco, high on adrenaline and coffee, and wondering what it would be like to go through the place the natives call The City for the first time since 1970.

I was going home.

Tomorrow, Part IV: “Hi-ho, Hi-ho, We’re Off to See the Show.”

The Adventure, Part II or Fat Man on the Run

My plan was a thing of beauty. According to my machinations, I would get in to San Francisco at about 11:30 a.m. PST. This would give me plenty of time to drive to San Rafael, get a bite to eat, check in, and nap before Mark and Bernie, the Internet Wraiths, got there. There would then follow a couple of hours of carousing and merrymaking before departing for the Marin County Veterans Memorial Auditorium for the show.

As I worked over the logistics of my journey, I realized that it would be easier for everyone if I took the bus and train to the airport rather than dragging my wife and son on a 60-mile predawn school-day schlep. The downside of this plan was that I would have to get up at 5:00 a.m., a full seven hours before my preferred time to rise. (This is just a joke; I rarely sleep past 11:30.—ed.)

It turned out that getting up at 5:00 was no problem, since I slept as peacefully as a condemned man. Tossing and turning and rapid, shallow dreams made sleepy time about as pleasant as a mild electric shock. Still, I woke at 5:00, sweating adrenalin and ready for most any emergency.

Showered, dressed, and clutching an overnight bag, I delivered myself into the clutches of the mass transit system, which worked out just fine. The Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority safely completed what would have been a half-hour car ride in only slightly more than an hour. With plenty of time to spare, I got myself in line for security, boarding pass, license, and DNA sample in hand.

Everything was as smooth as a Scandinavian’s complexion until I got to my appointed gate. The flight was delayed just so that the crew could get their proper rest. The delay was a short one, though, and I could still make the connection as long as the Memphis airport was as small as I fantasized that it was. Hope smoldered in a corner of my soul.

After they stuffed us on the plane, it was discovered that there was ice on the wings, and this ice would have to be removed. My seatmate grumbled about it, but, preferring tardiness to fiery death, I remained sanguine. There was always the chance that they could make up some time in the air. My connecting flight could be delayed. The Memphis Airport could be really tiny. Dozens of unlikely scenarios zigzagged across my consciousness.

At last, we were in the air. It was a short flight, and the flight crew was forced to pass out and collect snacks and drinks with the vigor of a crack addict. My seatmate continued to whine about her missed connection until I pointed out that Memphis was in Central time and therefore an hour later than Atlanta. As the flight progressed and no time was caught up, no fighter squadrons arrived to escort us, and the crew and passengers continued to be uninfected by “Let’s Fly to Frisco Fever,” I began to weigh the options that lay before me.

We landed at right about the time that my connecting flight was supposed to be pulling away from the gate. If we got right to the gate, I might still have some small chance. Unfortunately, when landing in Memphis, one must apparently drive the plane through Little Rock in order to get to the terminal building. Along the way, I saw another North-by-Northwest plane just getting ready to join the line up on the runway, and I had the feeling that it was the plane I was supposed to be on.

I removed myself from the plane as quickly as I could and sprinted (or a reasonable facsimile thereof, as adjusted for age and girth) to the gate my connection was supposed to be at. Fortunately, although the gates were on different concourses, the Memphis airport is compact enough that I was able to run the distance without having to stop for either oxygen or CPR. However, when I got to the desk, my worst fears were confirmed. The flight to San Francisco was gone, and now a flight to Tampa was getting ready to board.

Tomorrow, Part III: "The Shortest Distance Between Two Points Does Not Go Through Minneapolis."

The Adventure, Part I

The first weekend in February, I went on a good, old-fashioned adventure. Oh, sure. I could make the timeworn references to Odysseus and his son, uh, Geoffrey. But that’s not how I am. I’m the simple sort, as plain as a hoe and as unlettered as a yokel. In fact, I enjoy nothing more than to chew on a piece of straw while I sit in wait for a city slicker to happen by. We don’t cotton to no strangers ‘round here.

But I’m getting off the track.

I went for an overnight trip to California. From Georgia. The Firesign Theatre was on tour along the edges of the West Coast and a couple of Internet acquaintances of mine were slated to go to the show in San Rafael. Due to an unexpected upsurge in income, it was decided that I could waste a couple of hundred bucks on the trip out.

First, I had to get a ticket. Fortunately there were still a few left, so I logged on to Ticketmaster. The seat was distant from the stage, but not as distant as Atlanta. I cyber-grabbed it, and proceeded to the next of my challenges.

That turned out to be booking a motel room and reserving a rental car. The motel bragged of offering in-room blow dryers and a view of “the bridge.” “The bridge” turned out to be the Richmond Bridge, not the Golden Gate, and I was able to overlook it entirely throughout my stay. Still, the rate was decent, and the rental car they practically gave me, so no complaints there. I booked them and ventured forth, bold and fearless in a Barney Fife sort of way.

That left only one major hurdle: the flights back and forth. I started looking about three days before I actually had the cash to book anything and was heartened by the low-low prices. The best deal was actually a nonstop on an airline I’ll call Smelta. The world looked pretty cozy right about then, and I allowed myself all the contented sighs I wanted.

That was before the price started going up. The first time, it jumped up by about $80, which matched the jump in my blood pressure on a dollar per point basis. It was still possible, but I started looking to other airlines just in case.

When it jumped another $80 the next day, Smelta was stricken from the list of possibilities, as were any other nonstop flights. Decent prices were disappearing quickly, thanks to a case of the jitters on the oil futures market. Somebody blows up something 10,000 miles away, and I’m taking it on the chin because a bunch of gamblers and speculators are losing their nerve.

When the day that I could purchase finally came, the competition was down to one competitor: We’ll call them North-by-Northwest. The itinerary called for me to fly from Atlanta to Memphis and then on to San Francisco. I had half-an-hour between flights, but that should be fine if everything went well. The theory was sound, but only real life could tell us how good the practice was.

Tomorrow: Part II, “I Run Pretty Good for a Middle-Aged Fat Man.”

When a Door Closes, Make Lemonade

After a year of waiting, I was finally able yesterday to get an answer out of Public Radio International. They have passed on Next in the Series.

On the downside, that’s a year of my life I’ll never get back. On the plus side, I can now market the show elsewhere.

It would seem to be time to approach the big dog in the world of public radio, NPR. I have to fine-tune my proposal and presentation. I have to learn a bit more about NPR and the executive that I’m trying to pitch to. I don’t know if this will takes days, weeks, or months. Whatever it takes to get it right.

I’m also going to make more of an effort to get investors for the production company. If The Beefstake Mine Company is properly funded, getting NPR to distribute it would be easier.

Two steps at a time, right? That’s how you do it.

Ban Censorship

This morning, CBS Sunday Morning did a feature on the FCC and the pressures on it from various sides concerning alleged indecency on the nation’s airwaves. As per usual in these matters, representatives of the various interest groups were interviewed and their opinions solicited. (Even though I’m sure they’d all be happy to part with an opinion or two without solicitation, too.)

On the one hand—we’ll call it the “right”—was the president of a group of neo-Puritans who watch the filthiest shows they can find on the networks so that they can then write angry letters to the FCC complaining about what they’ve gone out of their way to watch. Week after week. Yes, friends, it’s the Thought Police, fresh from the Republican Convention and feelin’ fine.

Actually, I understand their concerns, but find their tactics to be yet another case in which the symptoms are given all the attention while the illness goes its merry way, unscathed and blame free.

I say this after having been exposed to some of the offenders. One set, a pair of DJs now working on satellite radio in a bid for “artistic” freedom, talked about wanting to deal with adult subjects and being penalized for this allegedly adult approach.

And here’s where I find a major problem. We have, here in the US of A, come to confuse that which is adolescent or childish for that which is mature and adult. I suspect that this comes from our various ratings systems, which classify the most adolescent and pubescent elements of our culture, such as pornography, as being for adult or mature audiences. The truth is that these items show the emotional and aesthetic development of a 13-year-old boy, although I’m not actually suggesting that this should be the intended audience.

Now, over the years and by extension, any performance that is juvenile gets attacked and defended on the grounds that it is “adult.” In fact, even this morning on CBS Sunday Morning, the nation was treated to the vision of Howard Stern who was complaining that the FCC wasn’t allowing him to be sophisticated and experimental. And this is the problem with Howard Stern—he is an overgrown adolescent who fancies himself to be Noel Coward. I’m sorry, Howard. Although I think you have every right to be on the air, it’s not because you are a cosmopolitan, avant garde sophisticate. It’s just that I think that even 13-year-olds have some rights, including those who live inside 50-something-year-old bodies.

True sophistication has something to do with intelligence and urbanity, with discernment and wit. Let us, instead of trying to hide that which is adolescent, endeavor to promote that which is truly sophisticated and, therefore, meant for adults. And as for the Howard Stern’s and the DJs and Janet Jackson and the people who write the angry letters to the FCC, I suggest that they try to do one thing: Try growing up.

The Illusion of Power

Thanks to the efforts of an ice storm that ripped through the Southeast this past weekend, we went without electricity for a number of hours, first for an hour or two on Saturday afternoon, then for more like 18 hours from the wee hours of Sunday morning until Sunday evening. The first outage was more of a nuisance than anything else, but the second one was much more significant in its effect on our lives.

How dependent we've become on the drug of electricity! No TiVo. No Internet. No CDs, DVDs, or tapes. No dishwasher. In our case, the stove is electric, as is the water heater. And the heat.

My favorite moment was when my six-year-old son threw himself supine on the floor and exclaimed, "I'm so bored!" I took it on myself to remind him that he had approximately 17,356 toys in his room that were designed to alleviate his ennui. I don't think he completely believed me, but he went off to play with them anyway.

The deep freeze also gave me a chance to become reacquainted with the radio, since we have a battery-powered job for just such occasions. The interesting thing to me was that it was almost no use whatsoever. There were stations playing music, much of it religious, and stations on which one chucklehead or another was talking like he or she knew something about anything. The NPR station had lost its power and had taken to repeating "All Things Considered Weekend" ad nauseum while a workaround was found. The big AM news station told us that a list of closings was available on their website, which we could not access.

And the thought occurred to me that radio needs a huge facelift. It is a fascinating and powerful medium that has sunk into the pitfalls of narrowcasting and pursuing the lowest common denominator. And I think I know how to fix it.

It needs to be more like TV. More and shorter shows devoted to a variety of subjects and formats. Local news shows that are on at dependable times with a news reader, a sports guy, and a weather guy. Drama, comedy, quiz shows, and soap operas. It needs to be vibrant and intelligent, rather than slow and dull-witted.

As it is, it's enough to make you fall supine and exclaim, "I'm bored!"

The Vanishing Boy of Pacific Heights: The Barbershop (Sans Cedric the Entertainer)

On a sunny Saturday in the spring of 1970, I was playing catch with my friend Mark on the sidewalk in front of the house Mark and his family lived in on Clay Street in San Francisco. Mark was two years younger than I was and black, and we had been good friends since I forced my acquaintance on him the previous summer. In the meantime, we had had various adventures, most of them innocent, a couple of them stupid. The stupid things were mostly my idea.

We hadn’t been playing catch long when Mark’s father, Rip, approached us. Mark’s father was a big man—at least by ten-year-old standards—and had a deep and rich baritone voice. He was, at the time, the Executive Director of the NAACP in San Francisco, and was the kind of person who didn’t have to raise his voice to gain your attention or to persuade you that things were going to go his way. Especially if you were, say, ten.

As he approached us, he called out, “Mark. Time for your haircut. Let’s go.” Mark, as I recall, didn’t complain or whine, he just turned to follow his father. And Rip looked down at me. He said, “Len, you can come along too, if you’d like.” Happy to be able to extend my time with my friend, I agreed and followed them to their car.

Mr. R.—believe me, I never even began to call him Rip back then—took us on a bit of a ride. I was expecting to go to someplace in the neighborhood, but we were, instead, going to one of the less upscale areas of town. In fact, we were going to the ghetto. We were going to a part of The City called Hunter’s Point.

The building was old, as I remember, and the windows of the barbershop were huge and old-fashioned. It was the stereotypical poor black barbershop with old men sitting around jawing about anything that came to mind. As we walked in, the place went sort of silent. White boys weren’t frequent visitors to this locale; at least that’s what their stunned silence led me to believe. Mr. R. greeted everyone and the greetings were returned, but the boisterousness that had held sway on our entrance was no longer present.

It must’ve been early afternoon, because the Giants pregame show was on the radio. Russ Hodges was interviewing somebody and I listened and soaked in the distrust and confusion that was radiating at me from every part of the room. Finally, the game began, and the atmosphere lightened as we all took an interest in the contest just starting probably not more than a mile from where we sat.

I don’t remember whether I said something or if someone asked me or if it was just apparent by my demeanor when he came to bat, but the mood of the room changed toward me thanks to Willie Mays. I came to realize that all of us in that barbershop were united by one thing: We were in love—in a nice way—with Willie Mays.

Leo Durocher said that there are five things that a ballplayer can do: hit, hit with power, run, field, and throw. And Willie Mays could do all five with grace and verve. He was an artist. He was amazing. He was my hero.

Mr. R. gave me a wonderful gift that day. He taught me, through the medium of experience, what I had thought all along, that there is no gulf so great that we cannot bridge it, no difference so stark that we cannot find some common ground. A middle class white boy and a group of poor black men could root together for the same thing and cheer together for the same man. I’ve never forgotten it.

And so I say thanks to Mr. R. for the experience, and to Mark for being a better friend to me than I was to him, and to Willie for being Willie.

The Confession

All right, I’m going to admit something here that may shock and dismay you. There are those who will call for my deportation. For others, simple imprisonment will suffice. However, regardless of the consequences, I must speak. I’ve lived this double life for too long, and I must come clean.

Okay. Here goes. The truth is, I like cheap coffee. Don’t bring me the Kona roast, the Venezualian Fruit Bat, or Extra Bitter Blend. Spare me the Starbucks coffee of the moment. I like the stuff I can buy in a can at the supermarket. Actually, because I use either a percolator or a French press, I have to buy whole bean coffee and then grind it to those specifications. But the truth is that I like getting the Folgers French Vanilla, not the Exotic African Blend or the Hawaiian Jangle. Plain, old coffee. That’s me.

I can remember the first time someone foisted some fancy coffee off on me, back in ’83. The friend was well intended. Fresh off the boat from Rhode Island, I was still a little wet behind the ears and green around the gills. I mean, I had left a place that was stuck in the year 1936 to come to a city that was relatively modern and forward looking. She was trying to inculcate me in the ways of sophistication, and she really meant me no harm. And it wasn’t her fault that the cup of coffee she handed me tasted—to me—like the bottom of an aborigine’s foot.

However, I felt the pressure of her earnest desire to please, and engineered a smile, and managed to force out some compliments. That most of that cup ended up gracing the bottom of a trashcan and that I much preferred the brew I got (and still get) from Waffle House remained a secret. A secret I’ve held until this very day.

I feel like a different man. My soul is unburdened. And I’ll await the Coffee Patrol with a serene heart and a mild cup.

You Heard It Here First

According to this article in The Atlanta Constitution-Fishwrap, prisoners in Georgia may soon be working for any company that wants to set up operations at a prison. (Look for Enron to open a number of prison-based branch offices once this concept shows up in the Federal system.)

After the prisoners have paid deductions for Federal tax, state tax, SSI, Medicare, restitution, and child support, they may retain up to 20% of what they earn, which will presumably be paid out in cartons of cigarettes. So, just remember: Don't do the crime if you can't do below minimum wage factory work!

And, Meanwhile, I Have to Work for Living.

It's funny the things that will set you off. For example, I was just reading this article on Yahoo! News, and was semi-fine with the whole thing, until I got to this bit:

In addition to the music acts, former Frasier star Kelsey Grammer (news), comedian Ben Stein and New York Giant football player Jason Sehorn will make appearances at inaugural-related events on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. (emphasis added)

"Comedian" Ben Stein? Now he's a comedian? I knew he was a washed-up Nixon speechwriter. (Let's face it, Nixon can go light on the speechwriters these days. Where he is now, he's probably being forced to listen to his old speeches, not create new ones.) He's also a failed actor and out-of-work game show host. But comedian? You mean like Chris Rock or Morty Gunty?

I just can't imagine Ben Stein standing up someplace and delivery 40 minutes of snappy patter. First of all, he lacks snap. Second, he lacks patter. When you come right down to it, he's less of a monologist and more of a monotonist. He's somehow combined whining and drawling into some sort of distinct vocal emission, but listening to him plaintively telling the one about the guy with the Brooks Brothers suit would be an experience akin to having your tonsils removed sans anathesia with ice tongs.

If you don't believe me, just watch one of his commentaries on CBS Sunday Morning. It's like watching a slow-motion video of a below-average life insurance salesman. I've had chest pains that I enjoyed more.

I guess he'll probably drone on about his favorite platitudes, like "Our Troops Are Swell" and "Nice Is Good," and the celebrating crowd of high-end campaign contributors will confuse pablum for wisdom. That's fine. They've got a right.

But for the love of Groucho, don't call this mook a comedian.

Two Things

First, I am going to come right out and admit that I was wrong. Blogger did not eat my post. My wife was able to get to the entire thing from home when I could not from work. Therefore, the problem was either in the laptop I use at work or in the network. I'm guessing it was the network.

You see, the IT department (remember the days before IT departments? Weren't they dreamy?) at the company I work for seems to be led by a group of Stalinists who escaped the former Soviet Union sometime after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Everything is onerous. When I was hired, I actually went for about three weeks without a computer of any kind. The waiting list for a desktop model was three months. It was like being on the Vodka line in Moscow circa 1982.

Since, without a computer, my job description would fall somewhere to the right of paperweight, a ratty, loud, and slow laptop was pulled out of the junk heap for me. (Actually, I think it was picked off the corpse of a freshly terminated salesman.)

The inability of the current five-year plan to match supply with demand is not the only problem they present, however. Since Freedom of Expression is strictly outlawed by the Central Committee, they have installed a Mail Marshal program to vet our incoming e-mails. This program is so screwed up that it regularly rejects e-mails sent by customers and is so puritanical that it has rejected e-mails sent to me by my wife (I know, I know) for using the word "sweetie." As far as I know, you can send out pretty much anything. It's like the rest of the world is Radio Free Europe and I work for 690 KRML, All-Kremlin-All-the-Time.

Of course, we also suffer from the problem of having the servers go down with the regularity of Linda Lovelace. The Internet server, in particular, is prone to extended periods of debility, during which times it must, apparently, go lie down with a cold cloth over its forehead.

But enough of that. This regime will fall. That is, if the CEO's wife ever likes to call him "sweetie."

And now on to the second thing.

I successfully overcame the logjam on "Plant Your Wagon" last night. I think it turned out pretty good.

Blogger Ate My Post

In trying to add a comment to the previous post, something apparently went wrong with Blogger and now, not only have the comments been zorched, but about half the post itself is gone as well. This brings up the eternal question, why do we let these machines run our lives? Other than they benefitted from one of the great sales jobs of all time, I don't know.

But that's what I get for putting my faith in a machine.

Prospectus for a New Year

COMPANY HISTORY

When Edward and Gordon Sludge formed Amalgamated Flange Corporation in 1915, little did they know how grand and glorious a company they had founded. The first years were hard ones; buffeted by the encroachments of a large Eastern flange cartel and nearing bankruptcy, they were saved in 1917 when they miraculously were awarded a no-bid contract to supply all the flanges needed by the American Expeditionary Force in World War I. As their uncle and shareholder, Senator Josiah Sludge, said at the time, “War has been good to us, and we shall be grateful.”

As the Roaring Twenties progressed, the Brothers Sludge—through a shrewd strategy of forcing out small competitors, gaining further government contracts, and joint ventures with the beleaguered distilled beverages industry—found themselves running the third largest flange manufacturer in the nation. Times were good—until 1929.

The stock market crash was a shock to all, and Amalgamated Flange was no exception. Thousands of workers were laid off, and more tried to organize, which resulted in the Cracked Head Riots of 1932. Government deficit spending, however, proved a raft large enough to float the company, and Edward Sludge was able to leave a lasting stamp of his stewardship by purchasing the assets of several rivals who teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. “I have met the enemy, and I have bought him,” he said, and this motto still serves the Company until this day.

The war years were a robust time for the Company, and by its end, the name Amalgamated Flange no longer suited the various interests in which the Company had since become involved. General Industries, Inc. succeeded Amalgamated Flange in 1943, and it was under this banner that the Company flourished throughout the 1940s and ‘50s. The Sludge Brothers retired, and succeeding management teams continued their policies of acquisition and government contracting.

As the years passed, diversification was coupled with a careful pruning of assets that resulted in the selling off of the last of the original flange assets, the original Amalgamated Flange factory, to the Japanese conglomerate Itsibiggi in 1986. The communications side of the business flourished, though, and in recognition of its significant holdings in cable television, satellite television, broadcasting, telecommunications, and the then-nascent Internet, the Company rechristened itself OligarCo in 1990, the name by which it is known today.

NEW DIRECTIONS

Throughout the 1990s, the Company continued to grow and diversify. New opportunities were found in such areas as Central American farming (Rain Forest Foods, Inc.), strip mining (Alaskan Frontiers Consumables, Inc.), and fashion (The Sally Clone Collection, Inc.). The most exciting opportunities, however, came with the trend toward privatizing the American penal system.

With the organization of the Internmentia, Inc. subsidiary, OligarCo was poised to exploit this burgeoning market. In a joint venture with Rain Forest Foods, prisoners were transported to Central American work farms where they provided low-cost labor for whom quitting or forming a union were not options. Similar joint ventures have been set up with Alaskan Frontier Consumables and The Sally Clone Collection, and a program is in place that will have prisoners installing cable boxes in subscriber homes within the year.

As an extension of this business, made possible by the Company’s sterling reputation and deft lobbying and marketing efforts, DeLeathIn, was formed two years ago to take advantage of the execution boom that has gripped the nation. Starting as a humble subcontractor in Texas, DeLeathIn has established itself as the nation’s leading provider of state-sponsored death. “It’s really just a triumph of market forces,” DeLeathIn president Hardin Hart explained. “We saw the market, we entered the market, and we’ve done what we needed to do to make our company number one.”

Success in the public life termination sector has been such, in fact, that DeLeathIn plans to expand its market into the private sector. According to Hardin, “Doctor-assisted suicide is the subject of great debate in the community and a tough ethical roadblock for doctors to overcome. And, let’s face it. How many doctors have purposely set out to end a life? Not many. In theory, that’s not what they do. When the time comes, we’re able to come in with the technology, with the experience to get the job done.”

Although OligarCo will never rely on life suppression services as the main source of income and profits, it is a solid niche industry in which the Company intends to remain number one.

New Year, Same Life

Work on Episode Three of "Plant Your Wagon" continues in dribs and drabs. I've been stuck on a particular line since yesterday afternoon. The answer will come, most likely in the form of omitting a joke entirely and just moving the plot along.

It will come, though. I'm reminded of a story about George S. Kaufman. He had a "conference" with Irving Thalberg during the writing of "A Night at the Opera." Irving asked him if the rewrites would be finished that day. "I don't know." Tomorrow? "I don't know." Thursday? Kaufman just stopped and glared at Thalberg. Finally, he said, "Do you want it Thursday or do you want it good?"

Unfortunately for me but fortunately for my now unwitting audience, I want it good. And that takes time and thought, and not just settling for the first convenient thing that comes along.

The Die Is Cast, Maybe

Thanks to a few bits of good fortune, I am probably going to form my production company, The Beefstake Mine Company, some time in the next month. I need to consult an attorney or someone else who is knowledgeable about these things to determine the proper form (I'm thinking probably either limited partnership or LLC), and then file the necessary paperwork.

Then the search for money can begin in earnest.

I already have a website devoted to the show that has script excerpts and the proposal of the show on it as pdf files. I think that and this blog will be two of the cornerstones of my fundraising effort. Feel free to direct interested parties to either.

The website, by the way, should have chat and messageboard functions working sometime soon. If you have any ideas about how I can pull this off, please feel free to post a comment or e-mail me. I'm very interested.

"If Five Will Get You Ten, Ten Will Get You Twenty"

All those years of scheming had to come to something. I have finally decided to form some sort of a production company, to be called The Beefstake Mine Company. I am working on the business plan for it, and hope to have it finished in time for the New Year. Unfortunately, this is not a kind of writing I enjoy, although I do try to work in a joke or two from time-to-time, just to keep my hand in.

If I can just wheedle a distribution deal out of PRI, I would have a bit more leverage on potential investors. Unfortunately, until then, I will have to rely on my wits and persuasive skills, neither of which is in long supply.

I will, however, say this: If you happen by this blog and if you also possess a wheelbarrow full of cash that you do not have earmarked for other endeavors, please feel free to e-mail through the link on my profile. I'd be more than happy to discuss a few pear-shaped propositions with you.

The Pilgrim's Progress or Not So's You'd Notice

In the last few days, I have gotten back on track and have started converting the typescript fragment of "Plant Your Wagon" Episode Three into a computerized and digitized (but not bowlderized) form. Scene One is done and Scene Two is halfway there. After that, I step back into the void of having to make it all up as I go along. Such is the writing life.

I'm trying to figure out the business end of this whole thing. I'm going to try to write up some sort of prospectus to use in conning--er, I mean, convincing--investors. I'll probably end up with a prospectus, a PowerPoint presentation, and the air of a carnival barker. But sometimes you have to do what you have to do.

After Frank D. Gilroy wrote "The Subject Was Roses," he sent it around to the usual producers, but got no takers. But instead of throwing it in his lower desk drawer and moving on to his next failure, he decided to sell shares and raise the money himself. He raised $125,000 (this was in 1964) and got his show on Broadway. It ran for 832 performances and won four Tonys and the Pulitzer Prize.

This is my model.

When in Doubt, Adjust

I have changed my proposal to PRI slightly. (I did this by e-mail the other day.) I am no longer asking them to fund the show, just to market it and distribute it. The Program Manager e-mailed me back to wish me luck on the fundraising end and to tell me that I should be hearing from her soon. Which would be great.

I think the money part may have been holding them up, but if I can get them to--even provisionally--agree to distribute the show, I'm pretty sure that I can find the money. I'm actually thinking about tryting to get investors or some venture capital to put into a production company. There are a lot of details to this, but the basic idea is to pay a return on the investment from sales of CDs and memorabilia.

The thing is, I'm just not a public funding kind of guy. I've been embedded in the private sector for over 20 years now, and I know that world, the money-grubbing, sell-your-mother-for-the-right-price world. These are the people I'm comfortable doing business with.

I guess it's a case of going with your strengths, right?

It's Been a Long, Long Time

December has not been my month as far as blogging goes. I've had the best of intentions and the driving desire to say "Look at me! Validate me!" that all good bloggers need. But I've lacked two things: time and energy.

As far as the show goes, there's not much to say, either. I haven't worked on "Plant Your Wagon" or heard from PRI. I am considering pursuing funding in new and different ways, but I don't know that it would be a good idea to get into that too much right now. Maybe it would. I don't know. Who has time to think anymore?

I do feel that, come what may, I need to make some kind of a move on this in the new year. It can't wait forever.

I'd like to at least get a pilot recorded as soon as possible. Excerpts from scripts or even scripts in their entirety are fine, but not as good as hearing the thing performed. I've come to realize that people reading the scripts can't hear what's inside my head; they need the help that comes from performance. Unfortunately, that takes money, which leaves me off right where I began. That's the funny thing about rabbit holes.

The Firesign Theatre

This post is long overdue in several ways, and it comes about because I've taken time the last couple of nights to listen to a majority of the Real Video clips showing The Firesign Theatre at work on the show they did for XM Radio back in 2001-2002. A few minutes after listening to the three parts of “The Fuse of Doom” (which harkens back to one of my favorite albums, “The Tale of the Giant Rat of Sumatra”), it occurred to me that I hadn’t provided a link to their website or to Planet Proctor or RFO.net. Fie, I say! Fie!

For those who are not familiar with The Firesign Theatre, I'll give a quick introduction. First, the Firesign Theatre is four guys, now in their sixties, who created a kind of audio theatre back in the late Sixties and Seventies that has never been successfully imitated or surpassed. They are Phil Austin, Peter Bergman, David Ossman, and Philip Proctor. They came together by an accident of fate—much as some cosmic dust once came together to form our Sun, the heating system (A Firesign joke)—at an FM station in Hollywood back around 1966. Peter Bergman had a show on this station called Radio Free Oz and he was known as The Wizard. Phil Austin was on the staff. David Ossman had been on staff, had moved on to ABC, but still frequented his old haunts. Phil Proctor was (and is) an actor, fresh out to the coast from NYC who knew Bergman from their days at Yale School of Drama.

They didn’t start out by saying, “Hey! Let’s make ourselves into The Firesign Theatre!” It just happened and evolved. The chance came to make albums, and they did, with a vengeance. “Waiting for the Electrician or Someone Like Him,” “How Can You Be in Two Places at Once When You’re Not Anywhere at All,” “Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers,” and “I Think We’re All Bozos on This Bus” all appeared between 1967 and 1971. Considering that they were also creating radio shows, performing live, and doing pretty much whatever they needed to in order to make a living, that’s not bad.

These albums are absurdist, sometimes surreal, and often flat-out, double-over-laughing funny. Two more albums from 1974/1975 round out the classics for me, “Everything You Know Is Wrong” and “The Tale of the Giant Rat of Sumatra.”

Aficionados of The Fab Four or Five can toss around lines from these albums with a dexterity that would flummox even most Monty Python fans. These are comedy albums that withstand repeated listening. In fact, I’d say I’ve listened to “Dwarf,” “Bozos,” and “Giant Rat” over forty times each. “Giant Rat,” in particular, is interesting to me because (due to it being a Sherlock Holmes parody and due to the constant use of “cocoa” by the hero) it goes at a breakneck pace. (I’ve only recently come to understand that it is their tribute to the Goon Show, and I think they do Spike, Peter, and Harry proud.) However, the more you listen to it, the more it slows down. And more subtlety and ambiance comes to the fore. And nobody does ambiance like these guys.

In fact, back when I was invited to an acquaintance’s apartment by a mutual friend to play around on the analog four-track recorder he had just gotten, I immediately thought of The Firesign Theatre. And we worked together for two years and produced work good, bad, and middling, but we never became another Firesign Theatre. You can’t make these things; they happen on their own.

The scripts that I am writing for “Next in the Series” are not Firesign-like. Some are silly, some are a bit strange, but nothing like that particular world that is The Firesign Theatre. I had to make this my own.

He's Back, and This Time He's Exactly the Same

Last night, I got out the script for Episode Three of "Plant Your Wagon" and started transcribing and redrafting it on the ol' PC. I'm back thinking about radio. The month off did me some good, I think.

In fact, yesterday was a good day for me in thinking-about-radio terms. You see, once I finish off "Plant Your Wagon," I've got a searing political drama (actually a searing political comedy) called "The Political Thing" to write. That, when done, will get me up to eleven episodes of a projected thirteen for the first series. Now, I've been bouncing around different ideas for the last two, and now I think I'm halfway there.

A few years ago, my wife and I were stuck in traffic and happened to notice a house by the wayside that had a sophisticated model sailing ship in the window and a rainbow flag over the door. Out of that justaposition of images, an idea was born.

So, I've been dragging this idea around with me for several years now, never quite being able to get it to jell into an actual story. And the bus I ride in the evening goes right past that house, although neither the ship nor the flag are there anymore. But still, it makes you think. So, anyway, yesterday, I'm riding past there, and I think, "You know, I should make this a story about the Bitlle and Bettle Joinsoin characters from 'Bitlle Joinsoin's Adventure Through the Watching Glass.'" (See, it's a story about an older couple who buy a rainbow flag without understanding its greater cultural significance.) Yeah! That felt right, felt good.

And then I thought, "As long as I'm cribbing characters from one of the existing scripts, why not crib Mel from 'The Anniversary Schmaltz' and his wife and his friend and make them the neighbors who extrapolate the wrong information from the rainbow flag? Brilliant! I love it!"

So, that's what I'm going to do. That will tie these three stories together, which is a feature I like, and allow me to do more with characters whose potential has not been tapped entirely yet. It's going to require a small amount of rewriting of "The Anniversary Schmaltz," but that's okay. It'll be worth it. And there were a couple of parts of that that I wanted to revisit anyway.

So, I guess it's "Once more into the breach, my friends!"

Did I Mention?

I was checking the official "Next in the Series" website this morning, and thought that I remembered that I had forgotten to mention a)that the website exists, and b)that samples from some of the scripts I've written are posted there as PDFs. These are the script samples that I sent to PRI with my proposal, along with a CD of old stuff from ten years ago, just to show that I know my way around a microphone.

Unfortunately, the script samples are not quite the complete collection. The sample from "The Tale of the Weekend Upcoming" has not been posted yet; neither has the proposal itself. The link to "Bitlle Joinsoin's Adventure Through the Watching Glass" is broken. My systems administrator--my nephew, Chris--is working on the problems. Since he works full-time as a high school teacher, is studying for his Master's, and insists on making time to spend with his lovely new bride, progress comes at a measured pace. Which is fine, I'm not complaining, I'm grateful for all he's done.

Still, feel free to take a look at the samples. There's no obligation, and I think they're entertaining. Nothing to be afraid of.

Or maybe I should take a different approach, the approach taken by WC Fields in "You Can't Cheat an Honest Man." Hurry! Hurry! See the World's Shortest Giant! See the World's Tallest Midget! Step right up! Don't be the last in your family to see these wonders! Hurry! Hurry! Step right up!

This Just In

I got a return call from the Program Manager of PRI today, and I guess that not much news is good news.

She apologized for this taking so long, but apparently, she hasn't listened to my demo CD yet. She said she hopes to get to it soon. She also offered to release it if I wanted to submit elsewhere, but I assured her that "as long as it's still in the running, why get out of the race?"

Again she was very nice and is probably terribly overworked. Right now, I wouldn't be looking to get the show on the air before next Fall, which means I should be able to pull it off as long as I get word by March. January would be better, though.

In the meantime, I'm going to have to polish off the remaining scripts and keep my fingers crossed, which really slows down my typing.

The Number You Have Reached Is Ignoring You

Since nine months is long enough to grow an infant, I figured that it was also long enough to make a decision on a radio show, so I up and called the Program Manager at PRI this morning. I called a little after ten, Eastern Time, which would be about nine her time. I got the voicemail, which indicated only that she was either on the phone or away from her desk, so I left a friendly message asking for any update. It is now pushing one, and no return call so far.

Now, in recent months, and no more frequently than once every two months, I have e-mailed her to try to get an update or to inform her of developments such as the Next in the Series website and this blog. In July, I sent a plain, old-fashioned letter with a self-addressed, stamped envelope asking for information. Nothing.

Now, today, it seems, I am getting nothing again.

It is one thing to get rejected. It is quite another to get ignored. I am considering my options, which include formally withdrawing my submission so that I can submit it to NPR. (I have their submissions guidelines bookmarked, just in case.)

And I thought people in Minnesota were supposed to be nice.

Extra! Extra!

Samples from the scripts I've written are up for viewing at the official Next in the Series website. The proposal I sent to PRI should be available soon. All are in PDF format for the convenience of the viewer. So, stop on by and give 'em a read! Your comments are welcome right here.

And if you do take the time to peruse them--Thanks.

The Technology Trap

Assuming that PRI has not, by that time, rained money down on me, when I return to working on radio scripts in December, I will be working on my laptop at work and the PC at home. My Olivetti (ironically, not the one pictured above) may stay out, but it will not be used for the last episode of "Plant Your Wagon."

Unfortunately, as long as I have to work at a "real job," I cannot get enough hours in front of a manual typewriter to get any work done. Some day, though, some day.

I posted the photo of the Olivetti Lettera 25 above (which I do own, by the way) because it is used on the sign-in page for Blogger.com to promote the damn "Write Your Novel in an Afternoon Contest." I find it interesting how the lowly manual typewriter is still a potent symbol of the real writer, I know I have the image in my head of the hard-bitten guy or gal slumped over a Remington, pounding out copy while a cigarette dangles precariously from his or her mouth.

What is the comparable image from today? A spiky-haired teen tippy-tapping on a laptop, headphones encircling his skull, GameBoy at the ready? A Starbucks-sipping metrosexual thumbing a Blackberry while waiting for his low-carb bagel? Something's not the same.

PRI Watch 2004 Continues

Nine months ago today, I submitted the online application to Public Radio International (PRI) asking them to consider distributing and possibly funding "Next in the Series." Still no word.

A couple of days ago, I was pretty worked up about it and considered the possibility of calling the program manager and saying "What the hell?" Now I am more sanguine about it, but my mood changes day-to-day.

I actually did call last May to make sure that they had gotten the damn thing in the first place. I spoke with the program manager, who knew my name and seemed genuinely glad to hear from me. Other than confirming that they had received the proposal I had sent by mail, though, she was short on specifics. She said that it was being considered and that there was a backlog and that she hoped they would get back to me soon. I hate to see anyone's hopes dashed--especially in this case--but I'm afraid that's what happened.

And so another month has gone by without word, but no news is good news, or so they say. Maybe they're just waiting on some funding. I know I am.

Am I Blue?

On Tuesday, the state I live in, Georgia, went for Mr. Bush by a margin of 59% to 41%. This was no surprise to anyone; Georgia had been written off as a Red state since at least the mid-term elections two years ago. Neither major candidate burdened us with a visit, and our exposure to vile political ads was limited to those of local interest. My vote for Mr. Kerry was symbolic at best. Thanks to the Electoral College, my interest, my vote, my participation were pointless, and the only voters who counted were those in so-called “Battleground States.”

Our system is broken and our method of choosing a President is a mockery of democracy. Filtering the will of the people through the Electoral College is to the practice of democracy what light beer is to stout or porter: a pale, watered-down, flavorless substitute.

The two-party system is also broken. Why moderate Republicans don’t just declare themselves as Democrats, I’m not sure. Their beliefs are closer to the Democratic platform than the current Republican platform is. And the Democratic platform is further from my beliefs than ever before.

My mother’s father explained why he was a Democrat in the following way: “They’ll both steal from you, but the Democrats will give a little bit back.” I’m not sure that that is still true. As the years have passed and as the consensus has moved steadily to the right, so has the Democratic Party, and this abandonment of it liberal basis threatens to turn it into the 21st Century Whig Party.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I took an online test that showed the testee which political party or candidates the testee’s beliefs lined up with. And, although Mr. Kerry outscored Mr. Bush by some margin for both of us, Mr. Kerry was easily outpaced by the Green Party. And after Tuesday, after a lifetime as a Democrat, I am thinking of going Green.

Here’s the headline: “Reds Make Blue Green.” You heard it here first.

"Plant Your Wagon" on Hiatus

I finished the scene I had been working on for the past couple of weeks yesterday, but still have another 15 or 16 to go. Since today is the first day of the novel challenge, I'm going to put "Plant Your Wagon" aside in favor of "Michael Drayton, Detective Guy."

May God have pity on my heathen soul.

Script Update

Originally, I had hoped to complete the third (and final) episode of "Plant Your Wagon" by tomorrow. I needed somewhere between 15 and 18 pages. In the past week, I have eked out one page. Now, I'll grant you, it was a good page, but it still leaves me about 17 short. I somehow doubt (when a good writing day for me is four pages) that I'll get that done before it is time to start on the novel.

Since that's the case, I guess I'll just put "Plant Your Wagon" aside until December. And maybe by then, PRI will have come up with some moolah so that I can just worry about writing scripts every day instead of the procession of mundanities that pass for a job in my every day life.

Another Novel Approach

Well, I went and did it. As you may or may not be aware, there is a website site out there which is encouraging people to write a novel in the month of November. It has the unlikely handle of NaNoWriMo. The idea is to try to get 50,000 words of novel written between the first of November and the last. I have signed up to be part of this plague of literature.

In connection with this, Blogger.com is encouraging people who want to participate to do so through a blog devoted to their novel. In honor of this, I have created another blog called Michael Drayton, Detective Guy on which the novel will be written. (In theory.)

One and all are invited to keep tabs on the work-in-progress and to offer comments and encouragement.

In order to do this, I'm going to have to concentrate on finishing the third and final episode of "Plant Your Wagon" in the next seven days. I think that's possible. Then I will take a month off from writing radio scripts, although I do hope to keep up with both this blog and my contributions to Phil Austin's Blog of the Unknown.

The Call

Many people have no idea what it is to be called or think that it is limited only to people who are joining a religious order or are seeking to persuade the unbelieving. There are other sorts of callings, though. However, this is not the way that most people find their jobs. Choosing a career usually has to do with chasing money or it seemed like an easy way to get through college or I just fell into it. This is sad to me, sad that most people never get the experience of being called.

I say this because it happened to me. When I tell people this story, they usually look at me like they've just watched me have a nervous breakdown. Since it is not an experience that they've shared, they cannot credit it. Since it did not involve deciding to shove Jesus down the throats of the unbelievers, they cannot find the proper context in which to understand it.

I was 14 at the time, in a strange period of my life in which the friends I had surrounded myself with and the activities we participated in (by this point, mostly scouting parties into the fringes of an area called Trouble) were losing their hold on me. Change was imminent, but I didn't know that. I was just some 14-year-old punk kid.

The catalyst in this story was my English teacher, Mrs Stachurski (nee' Miss Butterworth). Towards the end of 9th grade, she assigned us something that I, for one, had never been assigned before. She had us write fiction. Write a short story, anything we wanted.

A friend of mine had told me about a movie he had seen that George C. Scott was in, called "Bank Shot." It was a caper film about some people breaking into a bank. Being the lazy student that I was, I decided to steal that plot and write my own version of it.

I had study hall in the school cafeteria. There were about half a dozen of us in there, and we sat at the tables in the back, by the milk machines. I can remember starting to write and the feeling of exhilaration that built inside me. My mind raced and my pen flew. Instead of the drudgery that I had expected, I found joy.

As I've told people over the years, always to their disbelief, it felt as though the hand of God reached through the walls of Goff Junior High School, tapped me on the forehead with a giant finger and said "A writer thou art." Talk about your epiphanies.

A year later, I would step on stage in front of 2000 students and teachers in the high school play, sneak a peek at the audience, and think, "Well, this is just like home." Almost 20 years further on, I directed a sketch for a video demo I did with my former partners. After a day of scouting locations on the fly, choosing angles, and directing performances, I thought, "This is something I could do every day."

Neither of those days, however interesting as days in which to choose a career, could hold a candle to that day in 9th grade. I write because that is what I do. I'm a writer because that is what I am.

The Only Way I Lettered in High School

I was about 14 or so when I discovered "The Groucho Letters," and it was with that discovery that my checkered career as a correspondent was born. As an adolescent, I didn't have many opportunities for epistolary brilliance, but I bided my time. At the end of my sophomore year of high school, a friend moved from Pawtucket, Rhode Island, to Harrisville, a tiny hamlet out in the sticks. In the meantime, my folks had moved me (with them, of course) from Pawtucket to North Kingstown. Now, that distance may not seem very big for people from big places, but in Rhode Island terms it was the equivalent of lightyears. Since calling her would have meant message units on the phone bill and since message units made my father's blood boil, our best chance for staying in touch was the US mail. At last, my time had come!

From time-to-time, I would shape my half-witticisms into letter form and mail them off. For every two or three of mine, I would get one reply. Life was good.

As time went on, more friends went more places and for a time my correspondence bloomed to its fullest glory. Then, as will happen, the friends slowly became strangers and there were jobs to worry about and lives to figure out, and my correspondence dwindled to mostly a memory.

With one exception. This past weekend, I wrote to the adult version of that young lady I had started corresponding with so many years before. We're down to one or two letters per year now, each. The mad rush of life leaves little time for the well-crafted half-witticism, although the urge to correspond remains. I'm trying to correct that, trying to carve out some time each week for a few people in my life who I don't get to see or speak to as often as I'd like. Like most resolutions, the odds are against this one, but if I don't try at all, it will definitely fail.

And so I reach out, one envelope at a time, waiting for the ever elusive return.

Another One of My Big Ideas

I guess it was about a year-and-a-half ago that I came across a website used by a prominent (by current standards) radio dramatist to put forth his pronouncements on the medium and the craft. Among his many rules, he had specifically admonished the neophyte radio writer to avoid submitting any script to any producer of radio theatre that was typed using a manual typewriter. Now, the first thing that struck me as funny was the thought that anybody (including me) was going around sending out scripts typed on manual typewriters. I just couldn't see that as being a common problem.

The second thought I had was that this might be something of a short-sighted policy. I mean, there are well known authors who compose on manual typewriters. So, I e-mailed the Prominent Radio Dramatist and asked him if he would reject a script from, say, Gore Vidal or Don DeLillo because they used manual typewriters. He replied in the affirmative. I don't think he knew who DeLillo was, but I do, and I'd take a script from him if it were written on a napkin with a crayon.

And in that exchange an idea was born. Figuring that, after two or three series, I'd probably be getting burnt out on churning out scripts for "Next in the Series," I thought that maybe I could do a season called "By the Manual" in which I solicited scripts from authors who work on manual typewriters as well as throw in a couple of my own. In addition to Vidal and DeLillo, I know that Ian Frazier uses a manual. And now I've found out that Bob Dylan used one to write "Chronicles, Vol. 1." I have a couple of other names scribbled down on a slip of paper somewhere, and there's plenty of time to collect more.

Now, as a result of the postings on an earlier thread here, I'm toying with the idea of including the proviso that the scripts, in some manner, deal theme of technology and how it affects us. Other than that, the authors would have a free hand.

Sometimes an interesting idea can arise simply from wanting to give the finger to someone who seems like a pompous ass. And for that, I will always be grateful to the Prominent Radio Dramatist.

You Don't Call, You Don't Write

I sent my proposal for my radio show to Public Radio International (PRI) on February 10, 2004. Since I sent it by 2-day Priority Mail, there's a pretty good chance that they received it on February 12, 2004. By the testimony of their website, their goal is to "respond to each proposal within two months of receipt." So far, in my case anyway, they are off by a factor of four.

Now, I'm more than happy to wait as long as it takes them to make their decision, but I have to tell you that the acid in my stomach has started percolating to a Latin rhythm. It's like waiting to hear whether or not you've won the lottery, but they just haven't gotten around to picking the last number yet. This is something I walk around with, wearing it like a lead-lined necktie. I wish I didn't, but I have to. And as much as I try to tell myself that each day brings me one day closer to hearing, the strain of having spent eight months in anticipation is quite tiring.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like PRI. I think we could have a beautiful partnership and that, together, we could make a nice dollar. I am not withdrawing my proposal or even beginning to think about considering withdrawing it. I'm just impatient to get the deal done and the contracts signed. There's much to be done and a good thing to be brought into the broadcast world. Let's just do it!

And I'd tell you about the shambles that has become of the schedule I did on Microsoft Project, but it's just too difficult to think about. No, no (sniff), I'm fine. That's just a fiber of asbestos in my eye. And I always get misty on anniversaries.

I'll Be in Touch

Every morning on my way to work, as I make my way up from the platform to the world outside Atlanta's Five Points MARTA station, I do my best to go through the same turnstile every morning. This started on my first day back on this job (after a year-and-one-half interregnum), almost seven months ago. And I'll bet that in all those days (excluding the occasional time I've gotten off at a different station in search of the wild donut) that I've only missed that turnstile two or three times.

The first time that this happened--I think because the turnstile was closed for some reason--I had a mild panic attack. I didn't want push my way through the next one over, but as I forced myself to, I thought, "What a strange reaction." Why in the world should it matter?

But then that's when I realized that that is how we make our ways through a very complex world. We look for touchstones. We fashion routines. As we make our way through the chaos of the average day, we look for anchors anywhere we can find them.

On my lunch half-hours, I'm currently reading a novel called "Old School" by Tobias Wolff. It's what the Germans would call a Bildungsroman, a novel of education. Set in a boys prep school in the school year of 1960-61, it's the first person narrative of a young man who is trying to understand himself as both an individual and as a writer. In the part of the book I was reading today, the unnamed narrator examines several of the short stories of Ernest Hemingway. And in the portion of the discussion concerning "Big Two-Hearted River," I found this:

You saw everything Nick did, in precise, almost fussy descriptions that most writers would've left out. How he drives the pegs of his tent until the rope loops are buried, and hold his pants and shoes in his hand when leaving the tent at sunup. How he dampens his fishing leaders. Exactly how much flour and water he uses to make his pancakes--a cup of each. I'd liked being in on all these rough solemnities but I had missed the fact that Nick observes them so carefully--religiously is not too strong a word--because they keep him from falling apart.

It's just funny that I had been thinking about these touchstones this weekend and then come across this passage today. And just for the record, I went through the wrong turnstile this morning.

The Vanishing Boy of Pacific Heights: The Sixties

Since I was born in 1959 and since my parents decided to move to San Francisco in 1963 and since I have two older brothers, I was able to experience the '60s in the manner ABC Sports used to call "up close and personal." I remember watching Lee Oswald being murdered on live TV. I remember the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. I played softball with Yippies in Julius Kahn playground in the summer of 1969. (Despite their disinclination to use me, I singled to right in my only at bat. Not long afterwards, everybody else got the munchies and went home.)

But enough of my credentials.

Although the right wing commentators would have us believe differently, as a culture, we are still trying to make sense of the time between John Kennedy's inauguration and that lone helicopter lifting off from the embassy roof in Saigon. And while the right wingers do have some valid points to make about the excesses, they miss the good and the point of the good that went on.

In fact, I'm going to come right out and say that I have a problem with PJ O'Rourke and the ilk he represents. In the '60s, when it was hip, they were radical leftists. By the '80s, when it had become hip, they became radical reactionaries. And here's my message to all of them: Hey, according to actuarial tables you dolts have another 20 years coming to you. Still enough time to flip once more. Don't pull a Lee Atwater and wait until you have a brain tumor to come to your senses.

But enough of them. They are intellectual midgets who put more value in being "right" than in gaining wisdom or knowing Truth.

I keep thinking of John, Martin, and Bobby, and each sought to ennoble us--all of us, not just the most affluent or those who subscribe to a checklist of viewpoints. I think that the American liberal experiment that began with the New Deal died on a motel balcony in Memphis and in a hotel kitchen in Los Angeles. The idea that we were a community with common interests died and was replaced by the notion that we are merely a collection of factions with competing agendas.

A Republican President once said, "A house divided against itself cannot stand." (For the record, he was not the current Republican President.) Julius Caesar used "divide and conquer" as the basis for his military theory. And since that horrible spring in 1968, divisiveness has reigned supreme and commonality of purpose has been lost to the mists of time. If the American Experiment is to have any lasting meaning, we have to again understand it as a common enterprise on which we are all embarked.

And I leave you with one final thought: Happy Birthday to John Lennon, wherever you are.

The Return of Mr Controversy

I'm really not a true Luddite. I like the dishwasher. I like air conditioning. I like TV and CDs and DVDs. However, I think that it's a mistake to just accept technology wholesale, as we have done.

Most things that come with memory chips assume that you are an idiot. And while this might be true, I've found that in most cases it's not. I mean think about it. How many items do we deal with every day that attack our memory? There's speed dial, there's the thing in Windows that remembers all your IDs and Passwords. There's the favorites menu. (I've reached a point in which I can barely remember what most of the things on my "Favorites" are!) There are reminders and ticklers and alarms. There are PDAs. And memory, unfortunately, must be used, like a muscle, or it begins to atrophy. We remember less and so become more dependent on the machine.

My wife and I were having a discussion this morning about the influence of spreadsheets. Ask anybody. What's the best thing about them? They do the math for you. Again, math is good for the brain, and yet most people (myself included) will rely on a calculator or Excel if we want to add up a simple column of numbers. We calculate less and so become more dependent on the machine.

Quite often, high technology is a drug, and we have become a nation of addicts. Again, I'm no Luddite who wishes to wipe away all traces of technology. However, I think it would behoove us to be less accepting of all technology and to try being a bit more choosy in terms of what we rely on and what we don't.

I think another way to look at things is that having low tech alternatives is good for the national defense. I can tell you from personal experience that a manual typewriter keeps working even when the grid goes down. And don't even get me started on the pencil!

The Letter "CBS Sunday Morning" Dared Not Air

Back on August 29th, Ben Stein appeared on "CBS Sunday Morning." Mr Stein has started appearing quite frequently lately, espousing his opinions of the American scene. This is fine with me. I'm all for free speech, whether I like what's being said or not. The problem with Mr Stein, however, is that he makes arguments which are simplistic, shallow, and fundamentally absurd. His monologues are floor shows of lazy thinking, and if there's one thing I hate, it's lazy thinking.

His topic on that day was his vacation getaway in Idaho. Pretty harmless stuff, you say? Not after he spins it into a lot of political buncombe. I sent the following as the text of an e-mail to "CBS Sunday Morning," but they have not, as yet, had the wisdom to either read the letter on the air or to give me a job like Ben's.

In his commentary this past Sunday, Ben Stein showed that it is possible to still look through rose colored glasses even if you have an asigmatism, cataracts, and night blindness. First, I was taken with his statement that this idyllic and rural vacation spot in Idaho (which, by the way, thanks to his big mouth, will soon sag under the collective weight of thousands of TV-watching idyll seekers) is the place that we are pledging allegiance to when we pledge allegiance to the flag. I hate to be the one to break it to him, but the flag that we pledge our allegiance to flies over cityscapes just as regally as it does over the countryside. When we make that pledge, we pledge ourselves not only to the vacationer, the farmer, and the rube, but also the city slicker, the office worker, and the guy who sells hot dogs on 49th Street. Even Democrats and other dissidents are included in this pledge.

The second part of his rural rhapsody that raised an interested eyebrow was his depiction of the place as an enclave of the 1950s, a Lost Valley in the midst of turn-of-the-century post-modernism and moral relativism. The place comes across as a summery sort of Currier and Ives print, or perhaps as a Norman Rockwell caricature of an episode of "Leave It to Beaver." All the Moms wander around their self-cleaning houses draped in pearls, while the Dads, who wear ties even while showering, cheerfully spend the day working at some unnamed job "down at the office." The well-scrubbed, semi-literate children never bother their cowlicks or freckles over anything as dirty as the world and never chirp a sound harsher than "gee whiz."

Alas, back in the actual, living 1950s, things were a bit more complex. The prospect of nuclear holocaust held the world hostage, people's lives were destroyed by McCarthyism and a paranoiac fear of Communism, and Jim Crow ruled all those Americans whose forebears had hailed from Africa rather than Newport. As I understand it, there was even murder and spousal abuse and alcoholism. They even had bad news!

Mr Stein needs to learn, as do many of his friends and cohorts who are cavorting around Madison Square Garden this week, that the citizens of rural America are no more profoundly American than is the person who prefers to roam the wide open concrete, and that the 1950s were not an idyll, but merely another stretch of history that existed in space and time. And if he won't believe me, he should try reading Allen Ginsburg.

The Crow Flies at Midnight

Memo
To: All Conspirators
From: The Planning Committee
Date: Classified
Re: Conspiracy Update

We have several items on the menu, so I guess I’ll just jump right in.
First, I’d like to announce that this week’s conspiracy meeting has been cancelled. There will be no conspiracy meeting this week. One of the chief conspirators is taking his family to Disneyworld and would, therefore, have been unable to attend. This is a vacation he has had in mind for sometime and was cleared through the normal channels. Really. The forged paperwork backing up this claim is on file in The Conspiracy office, behind the third trashcan in from Front Street in City Center Park.

Second, I want to remind everybody that this year’s Lookouts and Fall Guys Picnic is only two weeks away. Sign up to bring a dish by leaving a note in the hole in the side of the oak tree just behind the grassy knoll. So far, most people have signed up to bring desserts, so we need a few more casseroles as well as someone to bring some soft drinks and chips. Forks, knives, guns and knockout drops will be provided by The Organization.

We regret to inform the membership of the passing of Shorty Levine at age 58. Shorty started getting nervous and therefore had to be killed. We encourage the membership to attend both the wake and the funeral, but please do not attend in a group as we did with Shakes Tamblyn. The group of us sitting together in one pack all wearing sunglasses made certain parties suspicious and they subsequently had to be killed. As we all know, inflationary pressures on assassination are currently pretty high and our ability to make it look like a coincidence diminishes as the number of people killed rises. So, take care and don’t go in until you see another member of The Conspiracy coming out.

Also, while you’re there, try to find out if any members of Shorty’s family are aware of our operation so that they can be killed, if need be.

Finally, I would like to say that this has been a very good year for The Conspiracy, that planning is coming along splendidly, and that specific assignments should be coming along soon. If you do not get your assignment in the next month, do not worry. That does not mean that you are about to be killed. Really. I mean, if you can’t trust your fellow conspirators, who can you trust?

Keep up the good work and let’s pull together to make sure that Operation Nuthatch is the best conspiracy ever!

Declaration of Principles

In "Citizen Kane," a young Charles Foster Kane composes a "Declaration of Principles" to publish in his newspaper. Since I make it a personal policy to clip as much as I can from the Orson Welles canon, I've decided to do the same thing for my radio show. Of course, Kane loses his way as the movie goes on, but all I have to say is this: "Don't worry, Jedediah. These will be kept."

DECLARATION OF PRINCIPLES

1. I will never write characters who are six and yet talk like jaded 40-year-old comedy writers.

2. Ditto with old ladies.

3. If I'm ever tempted to compile a "clip show," I'll just shut the whole thing down since I will then be officially out of ideas.

4. I will never do commercials for Hawaii or Disney resorts or cruises or similar vacation-related venues camouflaged as an episode of my show.

5. I will never write a piece of dialogue such as, "Gee Dad, I'm really happy you decided to take the three of us to the Freak Festival even though Mom disapproves." Decent exposition is my guarantee.

6. I will never do a parody of "A Christmas Carol," even though I've had a corker of an idea for years that is more of a sequel than a direct parody.

7. I will never use the plotline about the unconventional cop teamed with a by-the-book cop.

8. I will never use any plotline that involves two people having to work or live together who start out hating each other, but develop grudging respect and then love.

9. I will never introduce some object or person who, although never referred to previously by anyone, turns out to be the favorite person or thing in the world to one of the major characters.

10. Once such a character or object is introduced, they will not then disappear like a Chilean dissident.

This is a start. I'll happily take nominations for more principles to be observed.

(signed)
Len Foster Kane

Mr Controversy Strikes Again!

Well, I went through the other things that I've sent to The Times in recent months, and there really wasn't that much that made sense outside of the time and context in which it origianlly appeared. So, here I am, stuck for wordage and aching to be the kind of controversial loudmouth (each side of the political spectrum has its example) that people really sit up and pay attention to. What to do? What to do?

After much thought, I finally realized what heartfelt statement I could make that would best stir the embers in the ash heap of the reader's soul, and it is this: I prefer writing on a manual typewriter to writing on a computer.

There. You have it. When left to my own devices, I still write using a manual typewriter. Episode Three of "Plant Your Wagon" is being drafted on an Olivetti Lettera 35 that I bought new (that's right; they still make them) about a year-and-a-half ago. I also own a Lettera 25 (also new) that my wife gave me for Christmas a couple of years back. This is a great machine for letters (another discredited artifact that's preferable to its modern equivalent).

Now, you might be asking yourself, "Why on earth would this dimwit want to go back to the Dark Ages? What's he going to be in favor of next? Burning witches? Curing disease with the application of leeches?" However, I would assert that the rush to a digitized life has been frantic, hysterical, and ill-considered.

Let me list a few of the advantages I've found in using a manual typewriter. First, it never has to boot up, and it requires no password. The only thing I have to do to start it up is insert paper. No Windows A-Week-Ago-Thursday® starting up. No Instant Messenger, no indexing, no icons, no wallpaper. No adware or spyware. Just me and the blank page staring each other down in the duel of the ages.

Second, there are no distractions embedded in the machine, such as Freecell or e-mail or Instant Messenger or the friggin' pop-ups that I can't figure out how to stop. If I want to be distracted, I have to actually get out of my chair to do it, thereby at least getting some modest amount of exercise.

Third, since it doesn't have all the cut-and-paste editing options, I actually have to write carefully. I have to think through each sentence before I commit it to posterity. And having looked back over some of my posts here, I wish I could blog with a typewriter. Perhaps then there would have been fewer maze-like sentences and less camouflage for the meaning.

Fourth, if it crashes, that means that it's fallen off the table and on to the floor. Workaround: Pick it up and put it back.

Fifth, the keys move. They absorb some of the energy that I exert by pounding on them. My wrists hurt less.

Sixth, when I rewrite, I have to go from stem-to-stern. I can no longer just fiddle with one word here and one word there. Every part of the manuscript gets re-evaluated, each word, each sentence, the structure of the whole thing. Using a typewriter forces me to think.

Seventh, given a fresh ribbon and a reasonable supply of dryliner, I can produce a manuscript that is very easy to read. Also, I'm never tempted to put it in some strange font, such as Herzo-Govingian Slanty.

Eighth, it does what I want it to. It never repaginates. It never automatically makes corrections that aren't really corrections at all. It never loses my work if the power goes out. It saves my work as I'm typing it.

Ninth, it has the feature I call InstaPrint. One of the problems with word processing programs, one of the reasons why they actually slow down the work process, is that they separate typing and printing. My manuals join typing and printing into one smooth process.

Tenth, I can see the entire page I'm working on at a glance and can easily read every syllable. When I need to go back a few pages as a reference, I can thumb through the pages in a second or two. I'm not dependent on a machine to do my searching for me.

Eleventh, I am the software, goo goo ga joob. And I'm my favorite software package. My default settings suit me perfectly. I'm user friendly. Working with software is like learning an endless number of variations on the minuet with a very obstinate partner, a partner who gets to make all the rules and who rules with an iron fist.

Twelfth, my typewriter never tries to make me feel like a criminal just because I'd rather use "which" than "that" or because I might want to use the passive voice once in a while. I mean, come on! Get off my back!

Well, I guess that twelve is a good number to stop with. Maybe tomorrow I can defend the old fashioned missive or the card catalogue. Until then, to quote The Firesign Theatre, "Forward into the Past"!