2:37am on Wednesday
It's no use.
You're in a deep sleep in the middle of the night and all of the sudden you roll over and your eyes open and even though you can hear the gentle hum of 80/94 outside your window, you know that you're awake and will stay that way until it's time to go to work. Such is the plight of the radioomniac.
It's 4:27 on Sunday afternoon. I pledged to not write anything or record anything or stream anything or compose anything today. But yesterday I ran into Carole Terry, who is a charter member of the three or four of you.
"Keep writing," Carole said as she walked away. We were in the St. Thomas More Church. She was there for her granddaughter's confirmation. I was there for my niece Annie's confirmation. My daughter Jackie was her sponsor.
Friday the 13th of May
It's Friday the 13th at 3:31 in the morning. The three or four of you are asleep. When you wake up, I'll have said goodbye and ridden my bike to work.
I want to talk about Now. Not right now... because you can't talk about right now in that as soon as you say "Now," now is gone. You can't really 1. write about Now. 2. take a picture of Now. 3. record a video of Now. or 4. do a radio show Now. You can try to live in the Now, but in the end it's a losing proposition. By the nature of time passing and the next moment of Now toppling over the one that just past, you're toast.
Let pictures tell the story. Four days of My American, Radio Life.
Saturday afternoon. Nephew Craig Dedelow's game at Seibert Field, Minneapolis. Minnesota 8, Indiana 6.
Tuesday, New York City street scenes