Stupid telemarketing call tonight: I was distracted and did not hang up right away when I heard the boiler-room background sound. An almost unintelligible voice with an Indian accent that hello and something something because I had been selected and something about a new American Airlines reservation center in . . . (peer at the copy) Bloomington, and I was something invited to attend, for a chance at a free round-trip ticket.
When is it? I said, looking for a way to get out without being rude and hanging up.
“Sir my supervisor is standing by me to make sure I do not give you any wrong information.”
“When is it?”
“Sir here is my supervisor”
There was a pause, muffled words, and I hung up. Poor guy. But really, “when” is not an unusual question.
Then I jumped in the car and took Scout to the dog park by the airport. The usual crowd, all different, with many shepherds and shepherd mixes. One of the ladies thinks Scout has shepherd in him. Some people think there’s shep in anything with pointed ears. It’s as if shepherds are boinking 65% of the dogs in the country. Well, the dogs got to tusslin’ and the folks got to talkin’, and the next thing you know there are five dogs on top of Scout, trying to eat him, and he’s yipping and trying to get away and gets up and bolts, and every dog in the park is going after him because this is fun! And the huge ones bring him down and it’s a knot of fur and limbs, yip! yip! yip! so I wade in and shin the dogs aside and pick up Scout, whose little heart is going ninety miles a minute. Poor fellow. He's not a scrapping dog. He likes to tussel and romp, but there are some serious beasts at the park.
He spent the rest of the time just standing by my legs. One of the owners apologized and pointed to his dog, which started it all, and says that the dog is ashamed and knows he was bad. Sigh. Dog’s tail says “that rocked. Did you smell that fear? Awesome.”
On the way out there were a few other dogs that were nicer, so we played, then got in the car, which will have to be aired out and hosed down, because Scout just stunk of something. Possibly terror. Terror and slobber.
But it was a nice night. Humid day with storms and sun and storms again. If, as the weatherman says, the weather this year is always a month behind, then this is a perfect August. Perfect September, for that matter.
Soon enough, though. Soon.
Did her show in the early 90s, pushing one of the column compilations.
She was, it seemed, more nervous than the guests; the pressures of the show must have been enormous. But she was funny, of course, and let everyone shine, riffing off their comments when the moment presented itself but never making everyone feel like they were just a mirror for her own fabulousness.
It's an interesting sign of the times that someone with a long career dies at 81 and the feeling is: too soon. But it was exactly that.
Side note: picked up Daughter from the tables outside the grocery store; she’d gone there with friends to do homework. Saw her sitting outside as I walked into the store, snapped a picture of her, then knocked on the widow. She looked up with a smile that just lanced my heart; so happy, so beautiful.
On the way home she said “So Joan Rivers died. There were some kids on Twitter that said she deserved it because of the things she said about Palestinian kids.”
We had a little talk about that.
Oh: comments on "Happy Valley" deferred until I can see the whole thing and judge it from a position of, you know, glancing familiarity. It's good adn growing on me, even though all the men are weak, faithless, criminals, venal, or just useless. Except for the cheeky DCI.
The beginning of the old radio show “Lum and Abner” begins with three short rings on a party-line phone. “That’s our ring!” the announcer said, and the organist launched into the wheezy sentimental theme song. I listen to the show every morning as if it was on the air, and find myself saying the words along with the announcer - which, no doubt, millions did in the 30s and 40s.
Then the announcer went on vacation, and a different fellow stepped in. Three short bursts of the bell. “That’s our ring,” he said, stressing the middle word, and it made a world of difference. I wondered if he caught some hell for that. You’re just sitting in, pal. Don’t make like it’s yours all of a sudden. The old announcer returned after a week, and it took a long time before I stopped hearing that different stress. It really was a better way of saying it. Drew the audience closer right away, made them part of the little group of eavesdroppers who overheard the conversations at the Jot ‘Em Down Store.
One word, one change to the routine: it makes you realize the power an announcer had in radio days. They set the tone for everything that came afterwards.
L & A intro #1Here's one way . .
L & A intro #2 . . . and another. (Warning - a bit loud.)
Which do you prefer?
Now, the weekly clips of library music from the late 50s and the early months of 1960, taken from "The Couple Next Door." If you're new to this, well, I'll explain next week, perhaps.
CND Cue #453 This is familiar; it's played once a month or so. Breakfast time, and all is fine . . . except where's Aunt Effie?
CND Cue #454 To my surprise, this followed, after the mood had turned. Aunt Effie might be in danger.
Same theme, minor key. How about that.
CND Cue #455 Part of the ensemble of new cues; I wonder if they discovered some old stuff, or were delighted to find someone had recorded new material.
It’s not like it was all made at once, and then they stopped making it forever.
CND Cue #456 It's like a complete symphonic movement in thirteen seconds.