You know it’s a good day when you walk through the door and your daughter sings “It’s my father, whom I love very much.” Sing-songy and exaggerated, of course, but it beats slammed doors and I HATE YOU YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. Of course it was a good day. Thursday was the day we all thought would never come.

In June, that is. Late July, maybe. No one expected summer to happen in June; we gave that up. Wrote it off. Chalked it up. Dialed our expectations down. Up, off, up, and down. Dizzy, we were. Well, I finished some work in the studio this morning around 11, wandered downstairs to was surprised to see Daughter on the chaise-lounge in the backyard, basking. Never seen that before. YOU HAVE A TEENAGER. Not for a few months, but still. Yes, she put on sunscreen.

I basked for a while as well and was beset by flies. Two of them seem inordinately interested in me. “It’s like I’m meat,” I said, to which Daughter sensibly replied “well, you are.”

She was giddy all day just to have summer here, and to celebrate we went to Target in the evening to get a new swimsuit and sunglasses. Before, though, I stopped off at the radio station to do a couple segments. Her first peek inside the glamorous world of radio. I’ve only been in one radio station in my life that had any cool-factor whatsoever, and that’s the public radio station around here. It was like Federation Headquarters compared to what I’ve seen elsewhere. This place has two studios underground, and we call it the Bunker for a reason. She thought it was cool, anyway, extrapolating to the teen-bop-pop stations she listens to. The huge mikes! The vast inscrutable control panels! A sign that lights up when you’re ON THE AIR.

Parental Workplaces are an interesting subject for kids, but not if they’re just offices. Offices are jails and kids pick up on that. At least my dad had an interesting, if greasy, place, and I have fond memories of exploring the station before self-consciousness took over and I felt out of place. I do remember the smell of Go-Jo, the gritty soap in the gas station restrooms (a peculiar substance that came out like a handful of tiny pebbles, but dissolved on contact with water), the joy of jumping up and down on the cable that made the bell in the service bays ring (how did that work?) and, of course, the miracle of the hydraulic lifts. At the Bulk Plant where the oil drums were kept, there was a little tractor that zipped around and picked up palettes.

Best of all were the trips to the candy wholesaler to pick up product for the station - imagine being eight, and walking into a WAREHOUSE of Candy. Of course you got samples. They were happy to give a kid a Chick-o-Stick. I felt like a very lucky kid to be my father’s son. Still do.

By the way, the bulk plant was where my dad and another guy sat in the dark with shotguns one night to catch the guys who were stealing from the site.

Caught ‘em, too.




When I read this again Thursday I got a ping! on the name Deputy Sheriff Ingham Idso. I remember a man from childhood church, Mr. Idso. Googled: I was thinking of his son, who died in 2009 at the age of 88. Ingham was his father. It's probably they knew each other from church.

This was the America of 1958: guy calls the sheriff, says it's Ralph from church. They're getting robbed, and plan to stake out the place that evening. Sheriff says "call me if they show up."

A search for Norman Gonderman in Fargo turns up this case, in which someone with that name applied his pedophile conviction because the court didn't pay for a "nocturnal penile study" case that proved he couldn't get anything going,

It also turns up this case, in which the daughter of a Norman Gonderman in Glyndon - just down the road from Fargo - was convicted of "intentionally aiding, advising, hiring, counseling or conspiring with her husband, Lawrence Johnson (Larry), in the premeditated killing of her brother, Norman Gonderman, Jr."

For insurance money.

The case is detailed here.






Now, the Cues! Do I have to explain? Fine; if you're just joining the Listen project, it includes a selection of music cues gleaned from "The Couple Next Door." Library music the producers dropped in to get them in and out of scenes. It's the background soundtrack for mid-century life. Many more can be found here.

This week: I fear I've run out of pieces. Note: I did something to the page tonight that broke Adobe Dreamweaver and made it shed tears. Won't even launch. Working from a laptop backup, so some of the enhancements and links as such may be dodgy, and the planned essay at the end is useless because I can't edit anything, only delete. Apologies. But here are the cues.


This sounds familiar. Could be it was cross-referenced for any episode of a program that contained a cat. You'll hear why.




I think this is a repeat as well. They’re really starting to blur together. I despair of finding new ones. I love the dissonance at the end. It's all about concentration and effort.




I know this is a repeat, but I love the let’s-all-pitch-in-together vibe, with swinging arms and bright smiles:




Inconsistent tape speed masks this one . . . but I think it could be a cue never used before. It could be! It could!





Hold on. Is this something never heard before? It does sound like something played in a banal late 30s German movie with Frauleins having romantic adventures, but the end is pure America. I just love the way these swirl up to their happy end.




More Modern Shopper music, busy, intent, but slightly concerned.. I think I’ve heard it before.




Ah! I know I’ve never heard this one before. right? Maybe.




No. I’ve never heard this before. I’ve no idea how they described this one. Play the one above again, and you can tell it’s cut from the same cloth, but not necessarily the same pattern. Time passing with minor tension?




And let's end with an old favorite: the pretention-puncturing bassoon and our old friend, the Mocking Waa-Waas.




A column at (scroll down to the columnist section) and other things here and there! Have a grand weekend, and I'll see you around.



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