I’ve been very worried about something personal, but I don’t know how to talk about it politely.
I recently heard a doctor on a TV show describe … well, you know when you go to the bathroom? Not number one, but the other one? This TV doctor said if you’re a healthy person, the deposit should be shaped like the letter “S” because it stands for “Super”, which is how you’re supposed to feel once you’re done.
Naturally, I took a look the next time and was shocked to discover that mine formed the letter “L”. I don’t know how I managed to make my offering turn such a sharp corner, but I was sufficiently concerned that I approached my next bathroom visit with quite a bit of consternation.
It was justified, as I issued forth a perfect letter “O”. Horrified, I called the nurse’s line at my HMO and though I think she was laughing at me under her breath, the nurse told me it was probably just the result of excess gas in the intestinal tract and I shouldn’t worry. Things would return to normal on their own.
Sure enough, the next time I produced the doctor-recommended perfect letter “S”. Relieved, I returned to my usual peaceful and confident frame of mind until a day later when I forced myself to look once again and discovered a remarkably crisp-looking block letter “E” floating in the commode.
Dr. Babooner, I’ve stopped eating because I’m afraid to continue with this particular bodily function. What if the next letter is an “R”? Could my own intestines be telling me I’m a total waste?
I don’t think I can bear the thought of it.
Sincerely,
K.O. Pectate
I told K.O. that doctors who give advice on popular national TV shows are desperately needy individuals who apparently aren’t satisfied scaring people on a one-to-one basis. They have to freak us out a million at a time.
If your lower digestive tract is, in fact, trying to spell “LOSER” as a message to you about your place in the world, I would consider it miraculous and something to be proud of. It’s a talent that America should honor, and if there is not already a reality show on TV designed to show it off, there will be one soon.
And if you continue to be concerned about your health there are at least 50 things you should change before you even turn around to look at the shapes you’ve left in the bowl, starting with a realistic assessment of the junk you’ve been eating.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
Today is the first day of March, and you know what they say about its famous entrances and exits. I was up late last night and was able to grab the tempestuous month for a brief interview.
TB: It’s just seconds after midnight and you’ve barely started. How are you planning to come in this year?
March: (sigh) I wish there wasn’t so much attention paid to that, frankly. There’s all this pressure to make an impressive entrance, but a few years ago I decided to just go with the feeling. I’ll come in however I come in.
TB: Don’t you worry that people will be disappointed if you’re not very lion-like?
March: What is a lion like? Do you even know?
TB: Ferocious. Hungry. Vicious.
March: Lions also sleep a lot. They have quiet moments. There’s even self doubt, sometimes.
TB: Self doubt in a lion? Really?
March: Sure. A lion can ask, “What am I all about? Does it always have to be growling and posing and tearing apart he weakest antelope in the herd? What’s it like to have a bowl of cold soup and a few crackers?” Raising some really basic questions can change your whole attitude.
TB: So you’re coming in like a pensive lion?
March: I’m an important month with my own style. I’m sick of apologizing for it or trying to hide behind some animal mask.
TB: So you’re not taking requests.
March: I’m coming in like the way I feel today. Not like a lion or a lamb, but just me.
TB: But you’ve got to admit you can be moody and blustery.
March: What, there’s no wind in November?
TB: Of course there is, but …
March: OK then. Stick the “blustery” tag on November. It needs something brutal to balance off all that goody-goodness around Thanksgiving.
TB: Right. And you don’t have a holiday, do you. Except St. Patrick’s Day.
March: (a low moan of anguish)
TB: You don’t like St. Patty’s Day?
March: It’s a fake holiday for slackers. Like Halloween and Valentine’s Day, it’s just an excuse for strange behavior. As soon as the green beer started to flow, I knew I wasn’t going to get any respect for hosting St. Patrick’s Day. Easter, now THERE’S a holiday. If I could have Easter every time … really be able to count on it … that would re-define me.
TB: You’ve got March Madness.
March: A basketball tournament? You’ve got to be kidding. That’s an insult. Ask the other months – I don’t think any of them would want to be known for “madness”. Especially since it’s all about posturing and gambling and the excitement peaks at the final game, which is when?
In April!
TB: I’m sensing resentment.
March: I’m frustrated because people don’t understand that some of us have to be early-stage transitional. And maybe that’s not so easy to love. Lots of flowery poems have been written about April and May, but they’d be impossible without March. Think about that!
TB: Any plans for snow?
March: Snow is part of my act, but I’m well aware it’s been done to death this year. It’s hard when the opener steals your material and does it so badly. But I’m not going to shelve one of my best routines just because some other month was trying to compensate for being short.
TB: Ouch. So there might be snow.
March: March snow is special. Try to have a positive attitude about it.
TB: And your exit this year? Can we count on something lamb-like?
March: Lambs are a lot more complicated than you think.
Be careful what you wish for.
Award acceptance speeches can be so difficult and potentially embarrassing. Words that might be perfectly acceptable in normal conversation or as part of a drunken brawl simply aren’t appropriate on a global stage with a billion people watching.
In short, it’s a good idea to write down your thoughts before accepting the little golden man.
And yet movie stars lead such complicated lives. People watch them to see the glamour, but they also enjoy a little bit of dirt. And you know how it is in show biz – you have to give the paying customers some of what they want. How much, however, is up to you.
Some complain that prepared remarks sound “canned”, and are not as memorable as more unscripted, genuine moments. Often this is true, but a bit of preparation shows respect for the audience and for one’s self. If you take the time to deliver a message that has been crafted and proofread and re-written, it will represent you better in the long run.
One year the actor Mark Rylance accepted a Tony award by reciting a prose poem written by Minnesota author Louis Jenkins. There are good things about handling it that way – including economy of language. A poem has rhythm and timing, and so it is easier to fit inside the 45-second acceptance speech time limit than, say, a bit of off-the-cuff drunken rambling.
The bad thing about using poetry – a lot of people won’t get it. Others will find it annoying or will simply ignore it. And it’s not as splashy or revealing as off-the-cuff drunken rambling.
Unless you go Seussian / dysfunctional / confessional on them.
I’ve won the prize at last, Oh My!
And now it’s time for speeches.
Thank you, thank you, mom and dad,
And no thanks to the leeches.
Did I say “leeches”? Heavens dear.
That’s not what I’m about.
And we all know of whom I speak.
No need to call them out.
No, I don’t want to dwell on that.
On agents and producers
And all the stabbers, front and back
The users and seducers.
No, this is such a happy night
And I’ve already chewed
through half of my allotted time
with anti-gratitude.
So thanks to all those who endured
my antics without cringing.
My tantrums and my selfishness.
My pouts and fits and binging.
I’m so in awe of everyone’s
commitment to perfection.
My rehab staff. My temper coach.
The guards at State Corrections.
My family – the spouse and kids.
I haven’t thanked you yet.
I know I made you happiest
when I was on the set.
I’ve only got five seconds now.
So here’s to all the rest.
The fans who paid to see me
though I’ve been an awful pest.
That’s a solid 45 seconds, if read briskly. And it would run on You Tube forever.
If you had to accept a major award, would you go with stream-of-consciousness, or carefully prepared remarks?
After yesterday’s kerfuffle over a prank phone call made to Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker by someone posing as businessman David Koch, I’m become very hesitant to accept the stated identity of anyone I can’t see. How can I possibly know that the people I’m talking to aren’t scheming, lying bloggers trying to embarrass me?
And don’t tell me bloggers who do this sort of thing are today’s equivalent of the pioneering broadcast journalists. Go to the CBS archives. Where are Edward R. Murrow’s prank calls? You won’t find them! And I can say that with certainty, not because I’ve been in the CBS archives, but because I’m a blogger and I can make stuff up.
In the Walker call, the prankster, a fellow identified as Ian Murphy (again, who really knows?), sounds just the way a scared guy would sound if he were trying to imitate the chummy, towel snapping way billionaire puppet masters are supposed to yuk it up with their boys in the back room. He is completely unconvincing when he attempts to encourage Walker with “Now you’re not talking to any of these Democrat bastards, are you?” There’s no fire in his voice when he exhorts the Wisconsin Governor with “Beautiful, beautiful. Gotta crush that union!”
There are plenty of movies where the villain is a fabulously wealthy lout who wants to control the world. Can’t we practice our maniacal cackle a little bit before trying it out for an audience?
The prank call achieved the remarkable feat of making me feel a tiny bit of sympathy for Wisconsin’s Governor. I’ll try not to get carried away, though it has changed my outlook in some key areas. That’s why I’ve taken to recording all my phone calls and producing a daily transcript, just in case someone tries to hoodwink me.
Here’s one from yesterday:
(phone rings)
?: Reference Desk.
Me: I’m looking for a book about prank calls. How to make them, how to record them, that sort of thing.
?: A whole book about prank calls? Phone calls?
Me: Yeah. Some of the social ramifications of it. Legal too.
?: I’ll check the catalog. I don’t think anyone’s written a whole book about it. There might be some magazine articles and … how about a movie?
Me: They made a movie about prank calls?
?: When A Stranger Calls. 2006.
Me: That sounds like a joke answer to my question, and I was looking for real information.
?: There’s also a book by Walter Mosley called “The Wave”. It says here one of the plot points has to do with a character getting phone calls from someone claiming to be his dead father.
Me: I think you’re pulling my leg. Are you a real reference librarian or is this some kind of cheap put-on for your juvenile GOTCHA website?
?: You called ME.
Me: That’s exactly what a prank caller would say!
?: All I did was pick up the phone.
Me: You mean you prank answered!
We went around and around for a while, but I didn’t fall for any of her cheap gags. Some people are just too smart to be fooled!
It feels like Technology week. Yesterday we talked about blogging being “over” as discouraged writers tire of nobody reading their carefully crafted words and they switch to the rapid fire expression of Facebook and Twitter.
Today we discover a new study that shows the transmitters in cell phones are jangling our brains. Results were published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, but the meaning of it all is entirely up for grabs.
Of course it drew the attention of marketing visionary and dealmaker Spin Williams, who sent this newsletter from The Meeting That Never Ends:
Great news about cellphones!
Researchers found out there IS an effect on the brain when you hold a cell phone up to the side of your head! That’s amazing!
Researchers had subjects undergo PET scans – one of those claustrophobic medical nightmares where they put you inside a massive, humming tube that’s so close you feel like you’re a Kentucky farmer stranded in a cave with spiders all around and the water rising from an overnight storm.
And then they tell you to relax.
The people who went into these tubes had two cell phones fixed to their heads – one on the right and one on the left. The phones had to be fixed there because there’s no way you can put your arm up alongside your head when you’re in one of those crazy-making PET scanners.
Then they had the machine look at the brain’s chemistry. They did it with no phones on, and with one phone on. Why they didn’t do it with BOTH phones on is a mystery to me, because that’s how I spend the bulk of my day!
Anyway, they found out when one cell phone was on, it was doing SOMETHING in the area closest to the phone’s antenna. Was it a spike in the “why-did-I-agree-to-be-in-this-stupid-study” lobe? We don’t know, but for some people, any undefined increase in activity anywhere in their brain is a huge step forward!
The brain tumor worrywarts have started in with their “I told you so’s”, but here’s the biggest news I take away from this landmark study.
We can make stuff happen inside people’s brains without having to cut a hatchway!
From a marketing perspective, that’s huge, because we already know at least two things about Americans and the quest for knowledge:
We hate book learning and smug smartypants professors.
We like feeling more intelligent than everyone else.
We love doing things with remote control.
OK, three things. Which leads to the next question:
How can we get smarter without any effort? No idea. But maybe this study reveals one way to start. Since we don’t know what cell phone radiation does to the brain, it’s still possible that it makes you brilliant!
Why not assume the best? If we can talk our way past the Chinese, education-wise, let’s trash the school system and buy unlimited weekday minutes for everyone!
Maybe someday we’ll be able to use cell phone transmitters to pipe information directly into the brain with no need to go through the ear mechanism, which is unreliable and prone to waxy build up! And once we can transmit information, why not secret instructions targeted to specific areas? I predict Behavior Modification Hats! And there’s a commercial side, of course. As a marketer, I want to know how I can use a radio wave gun hidden above a convenience store ceiling to tickle that one section of the brain that controls cheese ball cravings.
Brain science was always interesting, but it just got better! I can’t wait to add “Harvard Business School Phd” to my cell phone plan!
Leave it to Spin to jump a few lengths down the track on this, though so much of marketing is about trying to get inside people’s heads, how can I blame him for wanting to rush through a freshly opened doorway?
Which of your brain functions could use an electro magnetic boost?
I am a middle-aged person who used to feel very special and “with it”, but in recent years it has become obvious to me that I’m not anyone’s 21st century poster boy.
And yet I feel I still have something to offer!
So I started a blog. It helped me feel like I was at the forefront of technology – doing things the modern way, not stuck in routines that are considered “old school.” I’ve been at it for over two years now, and while no one would call me a “successful” blogger (on the Ariana Huffington scale of success), I do feel like I’m making progress.
My reader seems pleased, anyway. At least that’s what she says on those days when she has time to stop by.
Writing a decent blog requires some discipline. You have to spend time sorting through your ideas. You consider your opinions and try to give some shape and structure to these thoughts before posting them online. In an ideal world, you’ll even proofread your blog once before offering it to the world.
But just yesterday I learned that things have changed again, and blogs are over. Only the clueless and the lame continue with it. Blogging is simply too time consuming and the payoff is virtually nil – like setting up your lemonade stand on a street with no traffic. In winter. During a blizzard.
The new thing is to constantly rain your short, random thoughts on the universe using multiple bursts of text delivered through Facebook and Twitter. Communicating with only pictures, videos or emoticons is even better. Blogs are too writer-y.
Dr. Babooner, how can I start over AGAIN? I feel like I can’t keep up and time is running out. Am I just meant to be behind every curve?
And should I blog about this, post it on my Facebook page, or Tweet it?
Sincerely,
Increasingly Irrelevant In Indianapolis
Here’s what I told Four I’s: “Just stay open to new ideas without expressing automatic disdain for things that are old. When young people abandon a thing, that’s no reflection on the thing itself. Young people abandon everything eventually, including being young. Draw some comfort from the fact that they will someday feel as useless and out-of-step as you. So do what feels right and consider using the full range of options, including “old school” communication. So what if ‘blogging is SO 2004’? As for your next carefully considered post, I suggest you scrawl it on a scrap of paper, stuff it in a bottle and throw it into the sea. You can’t call it a mass audience, but there are people stranded on a desert island somewhere who are desperate for something to read.”
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
With all the snow PLUS a postal holiday, I’ve had extra time to read through the junk mail, including this dispatch from Wally’s Intimida.
Your New Sherpa – Parked Out Back
Don’t miss the President’s Day Sale this year – we’ll have awesome deals on incredible cars of course, including the one-of-a-kind Intimida Sherpa, the largest car on the planet! It’s a mountain of an automobile that’s so massive, it makes its own weather! Come see the car environmentalists call “obscene” and mapping satellites say is “terrain”. That’s right – your new Sherpa could appear in the next World Atlas!
Wally’s Intimida is committed to providing a great car buying experience to everyone who comes in the door. We believe in freedom and equality for all! We totally buy into the time-honored sales slogan “The customer is always right”. And if you shop in February, we make this pledge – The Customer is Always President!
Face it – you’ve always wanted to be Commander in Chief, and you know you’d be a great one.
When you come to Wally’s, our sales staff will meet you at the door with applause, just for being there! We’ll play “Hail to the Chief” and we’ll sit and listen with rapt attention as you lay out your ideas for how everything needs to be. We’ll agree, totally. You’ll get lots of ovations. There’ll be confetti and you’ll have the chance to kiss a few babies.
When we take you out to the lot for your test drive, we’ll have a camera crew following you and a reporter shouting questions that you don’t have to answer. And of course there will be a cloud of security, complete with snipers on the rooftops watching out for low flying airplanes. The manhole covers along your route will be welded shut. After all, you’re President!
Once you get back to the dealership – a press conference. The sales consultant, the sales manager, the financing guy, the woman who wants to sell you nitrogen filled tires and extra rust proofing and the dude who pushes the extended warranty will pepper you with questions. It’s all in good fun and what a great experience – bring your family so they can see how you handle the pressure with confidence. Ultimately we’ll do whatever you say, mostly. This whole thing is part of your legacy and you’re in charge!
And because Every Customer is President during February at Wally’s Intimida, we’ll do some talking behind your back. You can watch on closed-circuit TV as our staff of commentators and bloviators dissects your every move and gesture. We’ll chew the fat about how realistic your goals are. We’ll list your strengths and weaknesses and wonder out loud about your true motives. We’ll develop a plan to get you to compromise. We might even decide to stonewall you. Fun! Do we give anything away by letting you in on it? Of course not – you’re the President! So much of high-level politics is obvious. The players know what’s coming and it always boils down to a power struggle over numbers. We’ll consider shutting down the whole dealership if it looks like, by doing so, we can get you to budge on that paint sealant package. Stare us down. Test your mettle. And bring lots of extra change for the vending machine – we could be here all night!
And when the great struggle is finally over, there’ll be a signing ceremony in the sales manager’s office. It may be years before any of us know who got the better end of the deal. Historians will pick through the remains, and we’ll send you on your way with enough paperwork to start your own Presidential Library!
Here’s the point – when you are Commander in Chief, you are always the most important person in the room. If you want to feel significant, like your actions and opinions matter, then come car shopping at Wally’s in February when Every Customer is President. It’ll be the greatest opportunity you’ve ever had, and the toughest job you’ve ever loved.
I have to admit this letter got to me – I would like to feel like I’m as important as the President, but I don’t know if I have the stamina. And one thing Wally didn’t mention – when it’s all over you’ll still have to manage a crushing amount of debt!
This past Tuesday I grabbed a shovel and headed into the back yard to address some of the difficult issues dog owners face when the thaw begins and it becomes horribly evident that Fido has not been telling the whole truth about his business dealings. I should have suspected that story about desperate, out-of-work squirrels acting as personal valets was a mere fantasy. I chose to believe it because it made my life easier. Temporarily.
Walking with grim determination down a south-facing hill that the sun had cleared of snow, I stepped on a patch of brown grass that turned out to be covered with ice. As gravity took over I felt a tearing sensation in one of the major muscles of my left leg. I’ll spare you the spluttering and thrashing around and the Biblical oaths that followed. The result is that I can’t drive my car because I can’t lift up the foot that operates the clutch. I am suddenly impaired, but feeling lucky. I might have hit my head or fallen on the shovel, or toppled into the area that the dog has been decorating for the past three months with … well, let’s just say it could have been worse.
Yesterday my dear wife was kind enough to give me a ride to the doctor, but then she had to go to work and I undertook my errands by hobbling from one city bus to the next. It opened my eyes to part of a public transportation system that I had overlooked – namely, the part where I climb on and use it. I went from Shoreview to Rosedale to the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul Campus, then to the Minneapolis campus, downtown Minneapolis and back to the northern suburbs. It all went smoothly and just as the Metro Transit website had predicted. The only drawback was my sudden inability to hurry from one thing to the next.
It was a pleasant surprise to be forced to take things very slowly. The weather was fine. There was plenty to watch. At one point I had to kill 40 minutes at the central library in downtown Minneapolis. Was that a problem? Yes, the bus came too soon. Next time I’ll try to arrange it so I have to waste a couple of hours. And then there was the U of M stop where I felt compelled to fill the interlude with a cup of coffee and an apple fritter. The wait was no problem but the fritter was about 30% too big. I should have shared the extra chunk with the campus squirrels, but a misunderstanding about squirrels and chunks had gotten me into this situation in the first place.
In between rides I got from place to place the way Marty Feldman did when he played Igor in Young Frankenstein. Remember when he said “Walk this way”? That was me, minus the hump.
When have circumstances forced you to slow it down?
Many thanks to those who sent kind words and condolences on the death of my mother, who passed away on February 2nd. She was a good person who enjoyed simple things. My mom loved to laugh, and she was a bit unconventional. She anchored our little family, cared for her friends and did her best to create some fun in the world.
The daughter of a New York stockbroker, there was a bit of money and status in her family. Her grandfather was a preacher who died young. Her great-grandfather was an officer and gatekeeper for a society of Mayflower Descendants. There was a moral code and a distinguished lineage to uphold. For women born into such families in the late 1920’s, the expectation was that they would marry well and play their role.
Mom came of age just as WWII ended. A friend at work had a brother who had dropped out of high school and had just completed an uncomfortable stint in the Navy – a character clearly from the other side of the tracks. Mom’s parents were not thrilled, but she married him anyway. Her mother’s disapproval faded as she discovered this polite new son-in-law folded his handkerchief carefully and was very, very handy around the house. Stuff got fixed, and small things like that matter.
Mom stayed at home while my brother and I were growing. She dyed her hair blonde and smoked, like a lot of women did in the 1950’s. We accompanied her and watched while she did all the Eisenhower era housewife/mother tasks – laundry; cleaning; feeding us meat loaf and mashed potatoes; being the chaperone on school trips; doing funny, silly, crafty things.
She became a scavenger. We would make the rounds of local bowling alleys to gather up discards from the piles of debris in back. With paint and cloth and patience, she could turn a cracked bowling pin into a wacky character – a debutante in her frilly dress or a mustachioed singer in a barbershop quartet. Kitschy? Without a doubt. But there was no embarrassment. It was inexpensive, creative fun. My mom was the sort of person who did uncomplicated things like that. She loved plants and gardens and feeding the birds and sitting outside.
She went into an extended stuffed animal phase and produced a large number of plush critters to sell at craft fairs for not quite enough money to make a profit. In between fairs she was always ready to sew a bear for a new baby. Many of these teddies (and dogs and rabbits) were handmade and embroidered with the child’s name and birth date. It makes me happy to think that these are still out in the world, even if they’ve been placed under beds or pushed to the back of closets. It’s the memories they made along the way that matter most.
In the ‘70’s she worked in the cashier window at Sears, at a time when department stores had a separate, secure place where you could go to pay your bills. Because the job involved handling a lot of money, she worked behind a daunting pane of glass in a fairly humorless setting. To inject a little levity, she and her cashier friends would dress up for holidays and Halloween – poodles, fairies, firecrackers. Nothing was too dumb.
Mom with my brother, Lee
Day-to-day she wore sweatshirts and blue jeans. If an activity required getting more dressed up than that, you had to ask yourself if it was worth the trouble. A fun outing was climbing on the lawn tractor to mow the side yard.
Mom was an animal lover who made room in her home for numerous pets, including two gigantic St. Bernards. The door was always open for neglected and desperate wanderers. She and my father welcomed several abandoned dogs and far too many stray cats. There was no question about this. It was simply what they did.
For the past three decades we lived 500 miles apart. She relished using the visiting grandmother’s prerogative to do whatever came into her head without regard for house rules or discipline. When Grandma Barbara came to visit, one of the first activities would be a festival of misbehavior called “The Sock Game.” It involved letting her grandson jump on the bed while both of them ate M&M’s and threw socks into the spinning ceiling fan. Nancy and I knew the ritual had begun when the crazy laughter started and an occasional sock would come sailing out the door.
Like I say, she was a fun-maker.
One of my earliest memories of my mother is a trip we took to an upstate New York lake in summer. I was very young and couldn’t swim, so the only way to get out to the area over my head was to hang on to her neck. As her feet bounced across the lake bottom, we moved towards the middle of the lake and I sensed the dangerous chill of the colder, deeper water all around. I was excited but not scared because I knew I was safe in her arms and felt completely surrounded by her warmth. “I’ve got you,” she said. And I knew she did.
My mom meant love and home and acceptance to me. That’s what every parent hopes to be for their child, which makes it no less of an achievement. It is common as a sweatshirt and as goofy as a bowling pin character, and it constitutes everything that is most important in the world. It’s a gift I was very lucky to receive.
In one of yesterday’s comments, Clyde mentioned taking a brisk morning walk in Mesa, Arizona while listening to this song by Peter Mayer.
Peter is a wonderful guy and this is a great song for many cosmic reasons. But one of the more cosmetically attractive things about it is that the music unfolds at a pace that is just right for walking. Same thing here, though a little faster, from Fats Domino.
The right music at a perfect pace can make a walk more pleasant, though caution is always advisable. There has been a recent flurry of attention devoted to the developing hazard of walking while fiddling with electronic gadgets, amplified by a viral YouTube video of a Pennsylvania woman tumbling into a shopping mall fountain because she was walking while texting. Inattention can have serious consequences, and it’s not a new problem. These NPR stories about distracted pedestrians are two years old.
Back to walking and listening to music – we’ve been doing this since the invention of the transistor radio, though at least in the pre-Sony Walkman days you didn’t have the immersive experience of headphones to seal off the outside world – just a single earplug to deliver the music. Or else you turned it up all the way and had the sound blasting out of the radio’s tinny little speaker through the tiny holes in its leatherette case.
And before that? We had to play the music back in our minds. Or, heaven forbid, sing it to ourselves! That’s the kind of strange behavior that caused our fellow pedestrians to cross to the other side of the street (after looking both ways, of course).
