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Friday... broadcast day. From awakening, and the acceleration of the first cup of coffee and cigarette, the morning blurs from the hunting-and-gathering of CD's, LP's and concert updating... to the mad dash on the twisty bits to Charlottesville. After ten years, still looms large the edgyness and anticipation of pressing the big "on" button on the console as the beat ripples out like a rock thrown in a pond, "from the steeple to the cell, people." Some afternoons, it's like standing alone in the gulag as chaos reigns. On others, every tune suggests the next one in a seamless flow, with calls coming in from the cars, the fields, the kitchens and the prison yard... requesting, inquiring, saying "hello," saying "thanks." The paycheck is nonexistent, but the adrenaline is priceless. Better, again, than any pharmaceuticals. Generally, the radio dial sucks, monstrously. Hit the "seek" button, and see what you get. New "country," Cro-Magnon rock, Bible-thumping and brimstone, and incessant self-important pontificating... that's all you're allowed, always the most deafening. On the left of the dial, though, it's a bit more dodgy. At turns disquieting, disorganized, revelatory, and spine-twanging. Never what is expected. That's why I keep coming back. There's always the threat, real or imagined, that the Men In Black will storm in to spoil the show. FCC Black Helicopters demanding regulations and compliance... or it's the lash of big dollar fines or the ultimate silence. Not today. In a blink, two hours gone. Then the release into the daylight, as if you've resurfaced from a labrynth. Certainly, it was a good one. Rejoin the crowd, relearn how to walk, and finally acknowledge the growls of hunger from a foodless day. Spices, yes. We met up with the Gooner and Scheherezade, devil pickney in tow, for a reacquainting meal of salsas, moles (that's mo-lay, not tunneling varmints), and some frothy intoxicants. Surrounded by different accents and languages. Unfortunately, the young one was speaking in tongues, himself...hitting notes only a dog can hear. Ah, the haunted look of young parents when a child reaches two. Deah ol' dad can escape, she cannot. Which seems so unfair... she with grace, elegant looks, and a love for words. Talents on hold. I'm clueing her in to D-Land to re-prime the pump. As rapidly as swell of the day crests, the more slowly it resolves. Back to realityland. I'll get my hands dirty... tomorrow. |
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