Since being a small child, I listened to the radio for
music, news, sports, and general companionship.
At the time, “transistor radios” were new on the market, as all other
radios were more clumsy than portable.
Radios were powered by plugging them in to outlets or by enormous
batteries, most of which are now obsolete.
My radio was my best friend because it gave me a passport to
the outside world, and a glimpse into popular music. Eventually, though, I graduated to also
listening to something termed “talk radio.”
Music is all well and good; with songs helping set your
personal mood – making you smile, ruing for an old flame, or simply helping
sustain the latest craze in melody – is so often needed.
But talk radio is that medium I used to think, “Who’s
listening to that crap?”
Talk radio includes political pundits and sports
gabbers. I defer to the actual sporting
events – such as ball games – over self-anointed authorities.
Answer: Me. Now.
Rock and roll was terrific stuff to get your foot tapping
and your head bobbing in rhythm.
Some was really good, some not; much is still not, even
though it can be heard on “oldies” stations.
There’s no technical definition of what an “oldie” is. But, somehow, it was what I used to listen to
in my younger years of dinosaur fighting.
Then, country and western music became appealing because its
singers exuded my values and that of the Constitutional United States.
Unfortunately, the airwaves became flooded with singers
whose names had to begin with “Kellie,” “Carrie,” or “Kelley.”
Some of these yodelers sprung up from that savior of talent
void, American Idol. Yes, that show
produced many, many vocalists who closely mimicked a cat being beaten with a
violin. And yes, that also implies they
all sound alike to me.
Unless you are stone-deaf, you likely heard those morons
driving their cars that sound like fart machines with blaring “music.” That junk pumping out of the rust holes and
door seams is “urban hip-hop,” or rap.
There’s not much to it except for the poetry part. The droning thuds that are rattling the glass
are supposed to be there and evidently keep beat for this stellar display of
any lack of real talent. It is akin to
listening to Jesse Jackson slurring a rhyme about silver oranges, while being
accompanied by a toddler banging on a five-gallon bucket. (An
aside: Nothing rhymes with silver or orange, but I’ll bet Mr. Jackson would try.)
But listening to indecipherable speech with teeth-rattling,
annoying thuds has some genuine appeal.
No it doesn’t.
So on I moved to sports and talk radio. These yakkers aren’t much different than I,
and most of the time they are preaching to the choir. Still, it beats a sharp stick in the eye.
