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Tag Archives: OTR

My Facebook Finale

27 Sep

September 27, 2017

About a month ago I left Facebook.

It was getting annoying. There were constant fights and disagreements. And I don’t mean over politics. An argument started in a thread where one person said that he didn’t like an old movie from the 1950’s. I merely said that I thought it was OK but I expected more. That’s it. I was then challenged by a couple of college film students who said that I did not understand the differences between television and film, and did not understand the intent of the film, nor did I understand the art of filmmaking in general.

I remind you, this was my comment: “It was OK but I expected more.”
And this is the film: Our Miss Brooks

Would any of you get into a fight over this?

I believed, and rightly so, that there was no point in Hell in getting into a debate over a film as mediocre and forgettable as that, so I bowed out of the argument with what I thought was a classy and witty riposte: “Screw you, assholes.”

OK, I didn’t really say that, but I did abruptly leave the thread in the dust. Why bother? And that was only the last straw. In the days leading up to it, there were huge fights (which I tried- sometimes successfully- to stay out of) over things like comic books and people’s user names. It was all nonsense, all pointless.

But what really got me to leave was that I was stooping to their level. I’d leave snarky comments. I’d get drawn into the arguments. I realized I was as bad as everyone else who trolls online and decided to just stop. I did not make a single comment, or even like anything, for a month. I went on Facebook only briefly to check in on the one or two legitimately scholarly things I look at, and to see what my friends were up to, but I was off and on quickly.

However, you can’t eat just one potato chip, you can’t stop at one lick of a Tootsie Pop, and you can’t avoid clickbait forever. So I decided to go back online and see what happened.

What happened is that after a few days I decided to leave again.

Why? Because who expected to get into an argument over whether the Earth is flat on my first night back?

I tried. I really, really tried, but there were so many people saying so many stupid things it hurt. I don’t mean ignorant or misinformed things, I mean genuinely stupid things.

  • “The Earth ain’t round because I put a Pokémon toy on this baseball and it falls off.” And there was video to prove it.
  • “If I had a really really strong telescope I could see France from my house in Michigan so the Earth has to be flat.”
  • “If the Earth was round we could just walk around it all the way but no has CAUSE IT CAN’T BE DONE.”

And I took it seriously! I know some science. I was a science major back in the day. I debated it scientifically, explained gravity, described the difference between the Earth and a baseball (it’s a lot bigger and heavier) and just generally used a mix of common sense and science to point by point debate a whole bunch of people who are in imminent danger of sailing over the edge of their brain cell.

It didn’t go well. People who believe the Earth is flat tend not to appreciate the scientific method.

I also made an innocuous comment, intended as a mild joke, about a series of comic book covers someone posted.

How was I supposed to know the artist was following the thread?

For the record, yes, the later covers were more or less the same. (More skin less clothes, but the same focus on the face.) The artist was nice enough to not call me out, and seeing he was in the thread I complimented his art (he really is good.) But I never went back to that thread.

So that was my great non-Facebook experiment. I still believe the Earth is round so it must have been a success.

 

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Hollywood Russell and The Case of Dead Air in Studio Two

25 Sep

September 25, 2015

We’ve got something a little different for you tonight. Please read the addendum at the bottom, and enjoy!

HR Dead Air

The radio studio was pitch black. The only window didn’t look out on the New York skyline but instead gave a view to a very small and cramped control room. The gauges and dials, which usually gave off a small electric glow even when the studio wasn’t in use, were invisible. The room was soundproof but the quiet was broken by the very slight creaking of a door hinge. Normally, leading to a broadcast studio, the doors would be oiled regularly to keep any stray sounds from going out over the air in a live broadcast. A hand groped through the doorway and found the light switch, which the hand flipped on with an almost, but not quite audible click. The station manager, Jim, walked in and stood just inside the entrance. “This is it,” he said. “Was it, I mean.”

Behind him walked a man in a trench coat and fedora. A private detective, he looked very much like a fictional shamus whose adventures had been broadcast from that studio for almost two decades.  “This isn’t how I imagined it.” Hollywood Russell took off his hat and laid it on a small wooden chair near the door.

“It’s not how anyone imagines it. You’re not supposed to imagine it. This isn’t a broadcast studio, it’s Fibber McGee’s closet. It’s The Shadow’s inner sanctum. It’s the Daily Planet.” Jim looked around. “It was my home for a long time.”

Hollywood stood among the double rows of folding chairs where an occasional audience sat. WJP wasn’t a large station and never hosted the game shows or big network programs that audiences flocked to. He paced the length of the small studio, mentally estimating the length and width, and stopped in front of the cluster of microphones, set upon a small stage, where the actors had yesterday performed their last show. It was an afternoon soap opera fittingly called “One Man’s Passion.”

The station manager let out a small sigh. “People want television. It isn’t enough to hear words from a box, they need to see things too. Whatever happened to imagination? All we’re raising is a generation of children who will have their eyes plastered to the images on the screens in front of them.” Then, more darkly, “I’ve heard that some families even have two.”

Hollywood, who didn’t own a television himself, merely grunted and sat down in the chair directly in front of the main microphone. It stood about 5 feet high, with a brass plaque that read “WJP” in art deco style. He shut his eyes and saw a somber man announcing that war had broken out in Europe. He saw a trio of sisters singing about a bugle boy in Company B. He saw a man of mystery in a beautiful black car. He saw another man, in shirtsleeves, feverishly working his Rube Goldberg-like instruments and franticly switching from one odd looking device to the next, all the while creating the sounds of a rocket ship about to take off as the countdown commenced from X minus three, two..

“I’m really glad you came, Russell. I’m not sure I’d be able to do this myself.”

Hollywood roused himself and looked around once again. For a second he was sure he was in a peaceful town where the great water commissioner was about to fall in love yet again, but just for a second. He blinked and it was back to the solid concrete walls and softly carpeted stage, but he was sure he saw a single page of a script fluttering to the floor, just out of his line of sight, and when he turned he was just as sure he heard, however faintly, a mocking laugh out of the shadows.

The manager glanced around. “I hear it too. I hear all of it. Everything.” He sighed. “And now it’s gone.” Jim turned his back almost angrily on the empty studio and his eyes fell on the wall calendar. It had a picture of Louis Armstrong, telling the world that a certain brand of cigarettes soothed his throat. With a “hrmmpf” Jim pulled the hanging page off the calendar. It was September 7th.

“Lock up for me, will you Hollywood? This is all too much for me. Shut it all down and lock it up tight. Kill the power to the microphones. I’ll meet you downstairs in the bar. Don’t mind if I start without you.” Jim tossed the key on a chair and without a glance backward, left the studio. “I’m never coming back here again” he said to himself as he slowly walked down the hall.

A small smile played across Hollywood’s face. “Well now, I wouldn’t say that.”

He took one last, slow look around. He made sure the switches were off, that the microphones were closed and that everything was in order. Jim didn’t need a detective, he just needed someone to do what he couldn’t. And isn’t that all that a guy like Hollywood Russell really did?

Hollywood walked to the door, grabbed his hat, shut the light and walked out. A couple of seconds ticked by on the clock, and the door reopened. In the darkness, Hollywood found his way to a small desk off to the side of the microphones. On one side stood a very old cathedral-style receiver, a relic radio; on the other a small gooseneck lamp. He turned it on and aimed its beam right at the WJP plaque. Its reddish-yellow letters gleamed like the sun in the blackness.

Lights out, everybody.

But not for Relic Radio.

radio-studio-1930s_________________________

This written in response to the sad news that the Relic Radio forum was shutting down. While the main site, www.relicradio.com, will continue providing a great selection of old time radio shows (and you can find them on iTunes), the message boards are now gone. This story is a tribute to Jim, who runs the whole show, but also to the shows we loved. And as such, there are a few tributes to Old Time Radio in the story. I’ve listed many of them for you.

“New York skyline.” This might be the first Hollywood Russell story to explicitly state that it is set in New York. I did it intentionally in this tale because NYC was the home base of the Mutual Network, broadcasting out of WOR (which still exists) and was where Superman and The Shadow, among others, originated.

“Slight creaking of a door hinge.” Inner Sanctum famously began with the creaking of a door hinge.

“Fictional shamus wearing a trench coat and fedora.” Take your pick- Sam Spade, Phillip Marlowe, Richard Diamond, etc.

“It’s Fibber McGee’s closet. It’s The Shadow’s inner sanctum. It’s the Daily Planet.” Fibber McGee and Molly, The Shadow, Superman.

“A trio of sisters singing about a bugle boy in Company B.” The Andrews Sisters and their most famous hit, “The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B”

“A man of mystery in a beautiful black car.” The Green Hornet and his car, the Black Beauty.

“The countdown commenced from X minus three, two…” X Minus 1, famous adult sci-fi program.

“A peaceful town where the great water commissioner was about to fall in love yet again.” The Great Gildersleeve.

“A mocking laugh out of the shadows.” The Shadow.

“Well now, I wouldn’t say that.” The Great Gildersleeve.

“Lights out, everybody.” Horror program by Wyllis Cooper and Arch Obler.

There is also a very slight and subtle Star Wars reference that you will either spot or you won’t. You may not think a Star Wars reference fits but it does because A- there was a fantastic radio version of Star Wars broadcast over NPR stations in the 1970’s and B- searching for info about that show was how I found Relic Radio.

I put in one or two personal touches that I’ll keep to myself, but, the date on the calendar- September 7th– was the last day of the forums. The call letters of the station mean something too, but I’ll leave that little wink and nod to the fellow forum members. And Jim.

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