I'm Dreaming of a Brown Christmas

A solstice fact for the day, courtesy timeanddate.com: "December 20 and December 23 solstices occur less frequently than December 21 or December 22 solstices in the Gregorian calendar. The last December 23 solstice occurred in 1903 and will not occur again until the year 2303. A December 20 solstice has occurred very rarely, with the next one occurring in the year 2080."

Looks like Christmas Day in northern Illinois will not feature crystalline water ice coating the mixture of clay, sand and organic matter that serves as substrate for plant growth. That is to say, there's no snow on the ground today, and none predicted for the next few days. I wonder, was a "white Christmas" a popular idea before the Irving Berlin song, or did the song foster the idea? Probably the latter, considering how astonishingly successful the song has been.

Roy J. Harris claims in the article linked above that "longing for Christmas snowfall was hardly a common image before Berlin's song." But it is now. My own daughters are complaining about the prospect of a brown Christmas. But that doesn't bother me, since it's just like the ones I used to know.

I had a fine time driving home from Phillies (see yesterday), listening to Christmas music on WXRT, which has started playing it from 8 p.m. to midnight. That station, which normally plays a broader range of popular music than most, has figured out an alternative to the repetitive, unimaginative approach WLIT takes to Christmas music every year. First of all, XRT plays it only four hours a day; that should be more than enough for anyone. More importantly, countless artists have recorded countless holiday titles over the years, and the station dips deep into that well.

The selections include unheralded versions of classics, lesser-known songs, and a variety of demented holiday tunes. You never know what you'll hear next. I was enjoying the songs, but after awhile Lilly wanted me to change to WLIT, so she could hear "something I can sing along with."

"What, you can't sing along to 'Father Christmas'?" I asked. That was the song playing at that moment. (The Kinks, 1977; not exactly unknown, but the Christmas Lite wouldn't touch it.)

But the last time I played Father Christmas
I stood outside a department store
A gang of kids came over and mugged me
And knocked my reindeer to the floor

They said: 'Father Christmas, give us some money
Don't mess around with those silly toys.
We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over...'

I allowed that maybe "Father Christmas" didn't quite inspire the holiday cheer she was looking for, so we went back to the usual suspects for a few minutes. And what do you know, WLIT soon played the original Bing Crosby version of "White Christmas." I can't really complain about that. A few songs can take the repetition.

RIP, WRVU

An old college associate of mine, Pete Wilson, writes in The Nashville Scene about the June 7 demise of WRVU (91.1 FM), Vanderbilt's student radio, as a broadcast station. "What's lost?" he asks. "The real-world immediacy that made broadcast radio a better learning experience than online simulation. The respect of students, alumni and Nashvillians who were patronized, told half-truths and kept in the dark until June 7. And one of the best ways of sharing culture that Vanderbilt ever had.

"WRVU gave people all over Middle Tennessee music of all kinds to enjoy for free. It was a site of cultural production at an exceedingly democratic level. Not only could it be received by anyone with a few dollars for a radio, but that same person could find him or herself on the transmitting end as well. In addition to dedicated students, WRVU drew smart, imaginative outsiders into its arms and gave them an opportunity to entertain, educate and inspire as part of a Vanderbilt enterprise."

Once upon a time, I listened fairly often to the WRVU "terrestrial" signal (the only kind of signal at the time), both in my student years and in fact more when I lived in Nashville after finishing school. I knew a number of people who did shifts there, and now and then would visit the broadcast booth. Two other students and I mixed the sound for a movie we made in film class at WRVU, using some of the sound effects records the station had in its vast collection. WRVU in the early '80s was refreshingly informal.

Sure, the station will survive in some form online. Maybe in 30 years few will remember that it was ever on the air -- and they might be increasingly vague on the whole concept of terrestrial radio anyway, considering it something that their grandparents listened to. But I'm with Pete. It's a distinct loss, and the "Vanderbilt enterprise" and Middle Tennessee are poorer for it.

The New Nation of Bob?

At about midday today I found myself wondering what the new nation carved out of southern Sudan is going to be called. That's the kind of thing that a longstanding fascination with political geography will make you think about. When I was young, I was so taken with our copy of Historical Atlas of the World and its maps that the book eventually fell apart. Sometime in the 1990s, I bought a reprint of it (which wasn't updated: the editorial cutoff remained about 1970) that I still peruse from time to time, for the sheer aesthetics, enough though the Internet offers the likes of this and this and much more.

I'm fairly good at dating old globes, too, a skill I wish paid something. There are plenty of giveaways. If I didn't know the globe we have around the house was almost new when I bought it in the late '90s, I'd know it was post-Eritrean independence (1993) but pre-Nanavut (1999). More exactly, Hong Kong has no colonial designation on it, but Macao still says "Port." So that pins the globe down to between the handing over of HK on July 1, 1997, and the creation of Nanavut on April 1, 1999 (Macao was Portuguese until December 20, 1999).

I keep a couple of older globes out in our garage -- who could stand throwing away a globe? -- including one made after the reunification of Germany but before the dissolution of the Soviet Union, a fairly tight window from late 1990 through 1991. The other one is older: it still has a divided Vietnam, and Angola and Mozambique as "Port." (both pre-1975) but also East Pakistan, which would put it pre-1971. But that globe, a lovely 12-inch "Land and Sea" Replogle, isn't old enough to include the likes of French West Africa. Closing the window a little further, it does sport Afars & Issas, which had been French Somaliland until 1967 (and became independent Djibouti in 1977).

A favorite of mine to find on an old globe -- and I have seen it, though I don't own one -- is the Central African Empire (1976-79), created by one Jean-Bédel Bokassa, or Emperor Bokassa I, who apparently decided that being a tinpot president-for-life of the Central African Republic wasn't grand enough. Wiki tells me that his full title was Empereur de Centrafrique par la volonté du peuple Centrafricain, uni au sein du parti politique national, le MESAN ("Emperor of Central Africa by the will of the Central African people, united within the national political party, the MESAN").

The reason southern Sudan came to mind is that I heard part of a radio show discussing the southern Sudanese independence vote. They didn't say anything about the name. The information on the official web site of the government of Southern Sudan (GOSS, which sounds like an organization trying to kill James Bond) makes me think it will be "Southern Sudan." I suppose it's their business, but couldn't they come up with something more interesting? "Equitoria" is still kicking around. Or maybe "Bob."

The Milwaukee Riverwalk

When I have nothing better to do, I sometimes listen to radio stations randomly. You never know what outrageous thing you'll hear next. A while ago I heard a radio preacher actually specify when the end of the world will be: October 21, 2011. Not just down-to-the-day specific, but soon. Not something you hear every day. Who was that preacher? Did he learn nothing from the Great Disappointment? Or Matthew 24:36, though of course not everyone agrees on what that verse means?

Harold Camping, that's who, and he obviously holds no truck with the Mayans. Camping has examined Scripture quite closely, I'm sure, and has come up with a precise-as-Bishop-Ussher date for the rapture, May 21, 2011. After that it's a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth for the remaining people of Earth until October 21: poof!

Do you suppose Mr. Camping would be willing to turn over all of his worldly possessions to me? I'd let him use them until May 21, but after that they're all mine. No? I didn't think so.

After visiting the Pabst Mansion on Saturday, we ate well at Phan's Garden, a Vietnamese restaurant on National Ave. not far south of the mansion. I can vouch for their mighty fine Vietnamese pork chops. Right next door to the restaurant is a Buddhist temple of some kind, occupying what seems to be a converted apartment building. We might not have noticed except that we sat near one of the windows at Phan's, and noticed a monk, fully decked out in robes, go into the building.

Sated with Phan's fare, we sought out the Milwaukee Riverwalk and did some walking near the Milwaukee River. It's a fairly new feature of the city. When I first visited Milwaukee in 1987, the river was just a wet place that passed through town. Much renovation of its banks has been done since then. To borrow from Wiki, which I have verified with my own eyes: "Milwaukee Riverwalk has grown to include art displays... Riverwalk Park, water taxi landings, and other venues such as cafés, and brewpubs."

It isn't as intimate as the San Antonio Riverwalk, since the San Antonio River is lilliputian and the Milwaukee River is fairly wide, but the Milwaukee Riverwalk definitely has its charms on a warm September weekend. It also sported a few groups of boisterous drunks upholding the traditions of Beer City.

Texas '10 Oddments

Back to posting on September 7 or so. An enjoyable Labor Day weekend to all.

On our last full day in Texas, we ate barbecue with my brother Jim, who suggested we go to Texas Pride, a joint east and a little south of San Antonio on Loop 1604. As the name says, that road loops all the way around the city, making an even larger circle than Loop 410, which is part of the Interstate system (though no one ever calls it I-410). Much of Loop 1604 is a rural, two-lane highway, and so it is near Texas Pride.

The place is going for that former gas station/road house look, I guess. Had some good 'cue there and a Frostie Root Beer. Can't remember the last time I had one of those.

On the way back, I asked Jim if I could drive (we were in his car), and he agreed to that, so I drove a little south on Loop 1604, and then turned west on US 87 back toward the city. The point of this maneuver? So I could pass through China Grove, Texas, the subject of a fairly nonsensical but still memorable 1973 song. Going home that way wasn't out of the way, so I figured, why not? I'd never been there before, song or no song. In China Grove I saw a scattering of businesses, including gas stations, an industrial bakery and a convenience store. I didn't stop. Maybe the interesting parts of the town are off the main road.

I had more interest in the San Antonio River and its headwaters on this trip than at anytime before, perhaps because of my visit to the now-dry spring at Cathedral Park that was flowing in the late 1970s. This web page is remarkably detailed on the subject of the headwaters. I wish I'd seen it before I visited (that happens often). Next time I'm in town, I'm going to visit the Headwaters Sanctuary and the Blue Hole on the campus of the University of the Incarnate Word.

There were a lot of objects around my mother's house, photos but also smaller items, that I wanted to scan and post sometime or other. Trouble was, I had no scanner. Not even a computer. That was one aspect of the trip that I liked best, since I need to leave my electronics behind now and then. Not quite all of my electronics, since I had my digital camera, and so I took a few pictures of unusual objects around the house. Such as this one.

That's a commemorative plaster plaque from the American Legion National Convention in San Antonio in 1928, which my grandfather attended. So did Gen. Pershing and Col. Lindbergh, who are the floating heads above the Alamo chapel. My mother says she has a faint memory of her dad in a Legionnaires parade (she would have been three years old). He didn't buy the plaque at the time of the convention. I don't think that would have been in character for him. But many years later, my mother found it at a garage sale or the like, and got it as a retroactive souvenir.

I've read that H-E-B, or more formally the H.E. Butt Grocery Co., now has nearly two-thirds market share in San Antonio, and I believe it. There were many to be seen during our drives through the city. Once upon a time, back in the retail mists primeval BW (Before Walmart), H-E-B was one of three major grocery operators in the city. The other two were Piggly Wiggly and Handy Andy. Piggly Wiggly left the market all together, I believe, while Handy Andy is a shadow of its former self with only a handful of stores. Maybe. I haven't seen any for years, and the most recent articles I found on the subject are some years old, never a good sign about whether a business is ongoing.

A Handy Andy was within walking distance of the house I grew up in. This was an important consideration in the days before getting a drivers license, so I went there often enough. It seemed so large then -- it would be small now -- and by the mid-70s had a deli. That was an exotic innovation. Besides an impossibly large selection of meat and cheese -- which would be small now -- the deli also carried exotic goods such as Tiger's Milk nutrition bars and canned bear meat. We rarely bought anything like that, but it was somehow good to know that you could.

There was also a mini-mall attached to the Handy Andy, all under the same roof, which was there as recently as 1994, when I had some film developed at the mall's camera shop. The entire area now an H-E-B, with no trace of the mini-mall; the grocery store swallowed it up. The site of the small barber shop where I got my hair cut every six months or so is now part of the store bakery, way at the back. My regular barber back then was a good ol' boy from somewhere in East Texas. He fit the stereotype, too (someone has to). In the early '80s I remember seeing a report on the barber shop TV about AIDS, before it even had that name, I think. The reporter explained that the mysterious disease seemed to afflict Haitians, homosexuals, hemophiliacs, and heroin users; and my barber said that any disease like that was all right with him.

On the streets of Alamo Heights, a small city completely surrounded by San Antonio, I saw a number of black signs with white lettering that simply said: NO SOCIALISM. I'd heard about these signs, and others, which appeared last year during the long hot-n-bothered period before the passage of health insurance reform. I wondered whether the signs represent a principled stand against public ownership of the means of production (and service industries, in our time) or resistance to an entitlement program that will not benefit the sign-placers personally.

Since both Lilly and I were traveling by car together, we each sought San Antonio radio stations on the dial not necessarily to the other's liking. But here's the twist: I remember some of the same stations from years ago. Especially KONO, which now is an oldies station. In other words, it plays almost exactly the playlist it might have in 1979. KTFM, on the other hand, now plays contemporary music. In the 1970s it was an album-oriented rock station until suddenly one day in January 1979 it went 100 percent disco. I left town before the station, I imagine, sheepishly pulled the plug on that format sometime in 1980.

But in any case I wondered: which of these two stations hasn't really changed? One plays the same stuff as it did 30+ years ago; the other plays new stuff, which it did 30+ years ago.

Some lawyer or architect or accountant needs to lease this building, which is on the Austin Highway at its junction with Broadway in Alamo Heights. It was once a Mobile gas station, in case the Red Pegasus wasn't a giveaway.

The station closed in 1985, and I've read that Mobile allowed the new owners of the building to keep the trademark on the building as a "permanent loan." Good to see than not all landmarks disappear when you leave town for a few decades.

The Years to Come

Classic November day of the non-drizzle variety -- gray skies throughout the day, cold but not quite freezing, occasional flights of geese making their way wherever it is geese go. The year's nearly gone and good riddance. The decade's nearly gone too, come to think of it, but it hardly seems worthy of the name. Back in the 20th century we had real decades, by gar.

Heard a discussion on the radio today about whether next year will be "Two Thousand Ten" or "Twenty Ten." Since it was NPR, they went to considerable lengths to quote people supporting both stylings, along with various arguments supporting their choices, some more ridiculous than others. Go with your ear, I say. "Two Thousand Ten" for me.

At some point in the next ten years, however, the year will shift to a "Twenty-" format, since 2020 is already called "Twenty Twenty." As the first one to end with "-teen," I suspect 2013 might be the dividing year, but it could also be 2012, since "Twenty Twelve" is fairly euphonious. Then again, the special-effects show in theaters now seems to be calling it "Two Thousand Twelve."

The first decades of the 20th century are little guide, aside from the fact that most of the people who lived through it are gone. "Nineteen" applied to each of the years from the beginning. That reminds me of Mr. Allen, my eighth-grade English teacher, one of whose pet peeves was "Nineteen Oh-One" and the like. He insisted it be pronounced "Nineteen One." His reasoning: "Oh is not a number." I'm pretty sure that in the more than 35 years since he told us that, almost everyone in the class has ignored him on that point. I know I have.

Long-Drive Radio

Driving through the molasses that was Austin traffic, weird radio kept me company (see June 28). The radio similarly dovetailed with the landscape only a few other times in the course of 3,000± miles last month.

On Tennessee 128 between Clifton and Linden, a winding, lush, depopulated road, I spent some time listening to a remarkably erudite radio preacher discuss Zipporah, Moses' little-regarded wife, and the odd passage in Exodus that involves her circumcising their son. Somehow, that discussion seemed to fit the road going by, besides being as interesting as a lecture by my Old Testament professor, who knew a thing or two about smiting and knowing maidservants and other colorful Biblical activities. ("They call it sodomy for a reason," he once said.)

As I headed north on the main road (the Trace) through the Land Between the Lakes National Recreation Area in Kentucky, I found a station that promised, and played, "All bluegrass, all the time." That fit too.

On the whole, I listened to all kinds of radio. I brought recorded music, but I got tired of messing with it. It was easier to move up and down the dial.

A lot of chaff, some wheat. The most annoying format? "We play anything." BOB or JACK or whatever you call yourself, you don't "play anything." Where's your jazz? Your old-time mountain music? The King of Skiffle? What about "California Über Alles" or other classic Dead Kennedys? Just examples. I could go on. "We play anything in a certain narrow band of pop/rock from a few more decades than most formats" is more like it. Bogus variety, bah.

On long drives, I listen to a lot more talk radio than usual, too. Mostly for just a few minutes at a time, but enough to get a sense of things. A whole lot of later-day Father Coughlins seem to be worried about socialized medicine these days. Maybe they're afraid they'll be put on a waiting list to get that particular burr removed from their butts, or that we'll all end up as sickly and dying as the Canadians.

In Jackson, Mississippi, I heard part of a nature program that included a discussion of the mites that live in human hair follicles. A former high school biology teacher talked about these mites, and while he pointed out that they're harmless and invisible, he obviously enjoyed trying to gross out the show's host, as he probably did countless former students.

Too bad about the death of a certain famous pop star late last month. Speaking as someone who's 48, it's usually too bad to hear about someone dying at 50. But I am glad he passed after I got home. I don't think I could have stood the wall-to-wall news coverage of a story so slender that it could be summed up as, "Flash! He's Still Dead!"

I Heard It in Austin on the Weird Radio

I'd been warned. But I arrived in metro Austin late in the afternoon of June 10 anyway, making use of the main highway through town, I-35. My memories of driving into and through Austin on that road had been created in a different age, in terms of traffic. I remember buzzing right through in the '70s and '80s.

Austin has grown since then. Somewhere around Round Rock, north of Austin, traffic on I-35 glued up without an immediate visible cause -- not because of construction, or an accident, or anything I could see besides traffic volume. From there on, movement inched along. I-35 has upper and lower decks as it passes through Austin, and I could see that both decks in both directions were equally jammed.

I've experienced traffic jams in my time. I've driven in New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Washington DC, Houston, Atlanta and a lot of other places with snarled roads. I've seen traffic slowed or stopped by wicked pile-ups (with ambulances rushing by on the shoulder), or by jackknifed trucks, or by orange cones that suddenly funnel three lanes into one, or by windy thunder- or ice storms. Rush-hour Austin in the summer of 2009 topped them all for sheer, dogged refusal to move for long stretches.

Eventually, I'd had enough, and slowly made my way to an exit, some miles north of where I had planned. I knew enough about Austin streets to navigate to my destination south of Town Lake (since last year, called Lady Bird Lake) and west of Congress Ave. But the access roads to I-35 were also jammed. So much so that it took many blocks to change lanes just to get off the access road onto a city street.

As luck would have it, I turned onto 6th Street. Well known even 20 or 30 years ago as an entertainment district, I got the sense as I drove through that there's a lot more of it now than there used to be. Fortunately, since it was late afternoon, the street wasn't as jammed with pedestrians as it probably would have been after dark, but some people were still out and about, no doubt gearing up to visit the likes of Esther's Follies, the Dirty Dog Bar, Custom Tattoos from the Soul, Peckerheads, Mooseknuckle Pub, the Thirsty Nickel, the Black Cat Tattoo Parlor and Midnight Cowboy, among many others. Not really my kind of street, but it sure was fun to drive down.

I turned southbound onto Congress, also a major thoroughfare, and followed it a few miles. The further I went, the odder things felt. I'd been to Austin many times, even lived here for much of a summer, but I had the strange sensation that I'd absolutely never been there before. But 15 or so years is a long time to be away from a place like Austin. Much of its growth seemed to be on Congress south of Town Lake (called South Congress, or the too-cute "SoCo"), where I recall there being not so much, once upon a time. Whole new business districts seem to have sprouted ex nihilo, as far as my memory registered, with more emphasis on workaday and boutique shopping -- a lot of them with the look of independent retailers -- than entertainment, but with some of that in the mix as well.

All the while, beginning back on I-35, through the traffic jam, then the pre-party vibe of 6th Street, and then the strange unfamiliarity of Congress Ave., I was listening to weird radio. There isn't much weird radio in our time, maybe there never was. Even Austin's list of stations has homogenization between the lines, with certain exceptions, such as KOOP (91.7), "Community Radio for Austin" or the UT stations, KUT (90.5) and KVRX (also 91.7), though often enough university or public radio stations follow their own predictable formats.

What was I hearing as an unfamiliar Austin rolled by? I didn't make any notes (I was driving), I don't remember the station number, and there was no station identification to tell me the call letters. The show did remind me of Ken Nordine's Word Jazz, Firesign Theatre and The Bald Soprano, all at once. One segment was a bogus radio advice show, "Ask Dr. Beanbag," with both the questions and answers becoming increasingly demented, with odd sound effects thrown in. Then the show -- show isn't the word, the voices coming through my dashboard -- started a discussion on robots. An increasingly demented discussion on robots. With odd sound effects thrown in.

It doesn't happen very often, but that moment of weird radio became the soundtrack for the terrain going by. It fit. Keep Austin Weird, after all, though living so far from Austin, I can't say how much that slogan really means. The drive, which could have merely been about fighting traffic, felt a little weird, and was a better drive for it.

Florida Wrap

Downtown Tallahassee has a feature called the Park Avenue "chain of parks," which is essentially a series of long and narrow city blocks, end to end, given over to parkland but flanked by historic properties, such as the Greek Revival structure fittingly called "The Columns," now home to the area chamber of commerce. Tallahassee must also be a 9-to-5/Mon-to-Fri sort of downtown, so on a Saturday afternoon no one else was strolling the length of the chain of parks but me, even though it's a fine walk. A number of the Tallahassee homeless were present, especially toward one end of the chain. They weren't strolling, but instead on their backs. No doubt their day had had plenty enough walking.

Sportscaster Red Barber (1908-92) has a small monument in one of the parks. Apparently he lived a good bit of his life in Tallahassee. I'm not old enough to have heard him broadcast any games, but I remember his gravelly voice as Bob Edwards interviewed him on Morning Edition in the late '80s, when he was a link to old-time sports.

Only a mile or so from downtown Tallahassee is Lake Ella, which features a 0.6-mile walking path around a small lake, or a large pond. Unlike downtown, a lot of people were there on Saturday before sunset: walkers, dog-walkers, joggers, couples, families with little kids, even a wedding party having photos made at the gazebo next to the lake. One youngish guy, all in black and looking like an out-of-place Manhattan hipster, sat so still on a bench that I thought he was one of those hyperrealistic human-figure statues for a few seconds, until he scratched his nose. A lot of birds lived in the water. Mostly weird birds I'd never seen the likes of before, critters that looked like a cross between a large duck and a small buzzard.

Next to the walking path and squared in behind a fence was a Vietnam-era Huey (UH-1) helicopter, identified as 68-157848, with a red cross on its side. It was a memorial to the soldiers of Leon County who fought in that war. Their names were written on the side of the chopper. I've seen a lot of military monuments, but I think that was the first helicopter as part of a monument, rather than as war materiel display. Not far away was a smaller stone monument, something like a cylinder about as tall as my chest, weather-worn, stained and neglected. MERCI it said, in large letters. Also inscribed was: "aux soldats et au peuple Americains... 15 août 1944." Why Tallahassee got the thanks of France for its liberation, while it was still happening no less, I couldn't say.

Going into the trip, the restaurant chain Chick-Fil-A was something of a mystery to me. Maybe that brand was in Nashville in the mid-80s, but I don't remember it. I don't ever remember seeing it in Illinois, either. I imagined that Chick-Fil-A was confined to the Deep South. Maybe it was, once. But now there are more than 1,400 outlets in 37 states, including some in such bone fide Yankee states as Connecticut, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Maine, Massachusetts, Michigan and Minnesota. I wanted to try it in any case, and did, in Tallahassee. Wow. That was some good chicken sandwich. All fast food should be like that.

One thing I learned during the trip that I would never have guessed: the Air Force tests drones in the airspace off the coast of the Florida panhandle. Tyndall AFB, on the coast east of Panama City, is a hub for this kind of thing. In fact, this part of Florida is the place for U.S. drone-testing.

Fairly early Sunday morning, I drove through Youngstown, Fla., on US 231, and next to road I noticed a cluster of police cars – in a town that size, maybe most of the force. Cops were standing next to the road on either side of two figures close to ground. At some distance, I figured it was an arrest. I got closer and noticed that one figure, a man in a white shirt, seemed to be holding on to the other, which was not a man, but an alligator. Animal control, Florida-style.

It Withers Quicker Than the Rose

A radio station I found on the dial not long ago -- a 1950s-70s format, apparently new to the Chicago market, since I hadn't noticed it before -- summoned the ghosts of Buddy Holly et al. over the weekend by proclaiming it the "Day the Music Died Weekend." That doesn't quite sound pleasant, but it only seemed to mean that the station was playing more Buddy Holly et al. than usual.

What's the fascination with their untimely demise? They're hardly the only famed musicians to be killed in airplane crashes, after all. Just off the top of my head, I can think of Glenn Miller (presumably), Pasty Cline, Otis Reading, Jim Croce, much of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Kyu Sakamoto, Stevie Ray Vaughan (helicopter), John Denver, and one few people know, but who should be better remembered, Walter Hyatt of Uncle Walt's Band. There are others I didn't think of and even a book about the subject called Falling Stars (Rich Everitt, 2004).

Maybe the Buddy Holly et al. story has lingered because they were pioneers of such an enormously successful genre. Things would have been different in terms of posthumous fame if they'd been popular polka musicians. That said, if I ever pass near enough to Clear Lake, Iowa, I'll take a look at whatever memorials are at the crash site and the Surf Ballroom. I was glad to read today that the pilot of the plane now has a memorial, too.

What About the Sirens of Titan?

Someone named Clarissa Burt sends regular messages to my business e-mail address with the subject line "Clarissa Burt Talks." That address is mostly spam free, since I so seldom give it to people who have no business e-mailing me. But the address is on a couple of media directories -- such as Cision, formerly Bacon's -- so perhaps Clarissa got it that way.

Technically, her messages aren't spam, since they only ask that I listen to Clarissa's Internet radio show at a particular time every week. After weeks of messages, I was finally curious enough to check to see what manner of shows she offers.

A talk show, it turns out, as would be logical with a name like "Clarissa Burt Talks." Talks about what? This week's guest:

John Gray, Ph.D., is the best relationships author of all time. With sales of close to 7 million, Dr. John Gray's 1992 book, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, has outsold all other hard-cover books published in America in the 1990's. In his highly acclaimed books, audiotapes and videotapes, as well as in his enlightening lectures and weekend seminars, Dr. Gray entertains and inspires audiences with his practical, easy-to-use communication techniques that can be immediately applied to enrich lives and relationships. Listen in as Dr. Gray joins us to discuss his new book, Why Venus and Mars Collide.

Shucks, I missed the "interview" with "Dr." Gray. Somehow I'd assumed that he had faded away with other fads of the 1990s. Still seven million is an impressive number, showing clearly that a reader of his books is born every minute.

Just the Car I Need

Turns out today is the 60th anniversary of the introduction of the Land Rover at the Amsterdam Motor Show, a fact that would have escaped me completely except for an ad on public radio -- that is, a sponsorship announcement, since everyone knows there are no ads on public radio (except when there are). In any case, the announcer mentioned the anniversary and also informed us listeners that Land Rovers are currently transporting x pounds (or was it tons?) of humanitarian relief around the world every year.

Is that a selling point? Maybe we're just supposed to admire the machine for its good works. Next time I have some humanitarian aid to delivery, I'll certainly consider getting me a Land Rover. Maybe the next time Wisconsin tries to wrest the Upper Peninsula away from Michigan by force -- there's bound to be a nearby humanitarian crisis then.

Funny how there was no mention of Land Rover's long and illustrious career as a military vehicle. Including this version. Made for desert fighting and better than anything the Rat Patrol had.

I can't quit without a tangent from that reference. Turns out that the actor who played the only regular German in The Rat Patrol -- a stand-in for Rommel, perhaps, as an honorable German officer -- later made his living acting in an American soap opera.

Santa is Not Coming to Town

A lot colder now, but it seems that the leaves hereabouts are at peak coloration. I've heard different explanations for that -- a wet summer, a warm fall until recently, but whatever the reason, it seems that peak coloration is now. If I remember right, the first week or so of November was when peak happened in Middle Tennessee, back when I lived there, 20-odd years ago.

Think I'll blame the shift on global warming. Whatever happens, it's global warming.

Including this. Note that the web site for this radio station calls the music holiday lite. On November 2, I was wandering up and down the radio dial -- an occasional pleasure that will be lost to future generations, unfortunately -- and I passed this station. It was playing a Beach Boys Christmas song at that moment. I thought that so odd that I listened to the rest of the song, and then found out that the station has already changed its format from "lite rock" to Christmas music.

Global warming has addled their brains. Given the standardization of radio, this is probably some companywide practice and 40 stations around the country are doing it. But Christmas music on November 2? Who wants to hear Christmas music now? No doubt they can cite focus groups who want Christmas music right after Halloween. Those people are addled too.

I actually sent them an e-mail expressing my opinion. So far no answer, not even an automated one.

Kringle Terrace

Lilly has discovered the all-Christmas music station in the Chicago area, WLIT. A seasonal thing, though I don’t know when it started exactly. A limited amount is the best amount for something like this, but she’s pushing the limit already. Usually weekend radio around here is for the terrific jazz: “Live from the Landing: Riverwalk Jazz” and “Swing Shift” on Saturdays on WDCB (College of DuPage), and Dick Buckley’s Sunday afternoon “Jazz Treasures” on Chicago Public Radio, WBEZ.

In its Christmas incarnation, WLIT suffers the usual canalization of commercial radio. Of a universe of x Christmas songs -- a very large universe, I’d think -- the station plays 0.01x over and over. How many versions of “The Christmas Song,” “White Christmas,” or “Let it Snow” can there be?

But I will give the station credit for occasionally playing versions you don’t hear often. Just yesterday I heard the Judy Garland version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” which she sang in Meet Me in St. Louis (1944). In that version, instead of, “Hang a shining star upon the highest bough,” the line is, “Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow,” a much better set of words, since the previous line refers to the Fates, who are known for their unpredictability.

And I have a new appreciation for Elvis’ version of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” I wouldn’t be the first to comment on his remarkable voice, but it does seem hard to hear him clearly, since he’s been encrusted with 50 years’ worth adulation.

As a kid, I thought that song’s opening line was strange but didn’t know why. I still think it’s strange, because of the reference to “Santa Claus Lane.” Santa’s a real estate developer who names things after himself? Is Kringle Terrace -- 140 luxury condos starting at $495,000 for a one bedroom, up to $3.2 million for a penthouse -- also on Santa Claus Lane? And why does he need a lane, anyway? Doesn’t he fly?

Sounds of the Night

The last day of May, and we finally felt like running the air conditioner for a time, to cool off the upper rooms of the house. This house retains heat quite nicely, which is a virtue in the long, long winters, but not during the brief summers.

The day was warm and the night quite cool at the Marshall State Fish & Wildlife Area over the weekend. The camping area was divided into two lobes, one with electricity, one without. RVs parked in the electrified area, tents sprouted in the other; $12 per night for one, $8 for the other. A gray-haired park employee -- ranger might be too fancy a description -- showed up late in the afternoon to collect the fee. When we pitched our tent in the early afternoon, there was only one other inhabited site, occupied by a young couple. A young childless couple. According to Yuriko, they eyed us grimly at the introduction of noisy kids to the site.

Turns out, though, that the real noise that night was produced by three middle-aged fellows -- a little older than me, I think -- who showed up after we did, set up a tent that looked too small to hold all of them (someone was sleeping in one of their cars, it seems), and promptly turned on a radio.

A radio. At a campsite. This is like taking a ViewMaster to the Louvre. I’m not going to yammer on about missing the marvelous sounds of nature, the song of the whippoorwill, etc., but really. Whether or not you care anything for birdsong or those throaty bullfrogs we heard at sunset (away from the campsite), you’d think one of the pleasures of camping is to get away from items like the radio. I’d think that, anyway.

It wasn’t a bad station. It was playing all ’80s. And it wasn’t all that loud—just background noise. We turned in an hour or so after dark, and it was still on. We all drifted off anyway. Then a big crack of wood woke me up, and the damned radio was still on. The men were breaking wood for their campfire, talking, drinking, and listening to the radio. It was about midnight.

I fumed for a few minutes, but eventually unzipped my tent door. Being rude would have backfired, of course. So this is exactly what I said, in a measured tone: “Gentlemen, could you at least turn the radio down?”

Other than nodding hello, that was the first thing I’d said to them. Sure enough, they turned off the radio, almost at once. Then I had the sound of their fire to fall asleep to. Which I did. Perfect.

Force of Habit

Habit still wakes me up early. Too early, sometimes. Today, for example, it was at 5:30, not long after the daylight makes itself visible. Then I had trouble getting back to sleep, since I started ruminating on the day ahead. So I went to my office -- the house’s “fourth” bedroom -- unrolled a blanket on the carpeted floor, and laid down with my old brown radio next to my head. I fooled around with the dial for a little while, eventually settling on a Spanish station, turned down low.

Why Spanish? It was enough to get my mind off things, but since I couldn’t understand much, especially the commercials, it didn’t engage my mind either. Sure enough, the next thing I knew, I was waking up as everyone else in the house was, around 7.

It wasn’t a bad day. I had a talk with an editor I know who’s going to assign me something next week, a short quick job for the June issue of his magazine, with the promise of more assignments in the coming months. So things are moving along.