Now, don’t get me wrong; I’ve been instructed to perish in a conflagration more than a few times on these here Intertubes. But of course, I take that in the spirit in which it is given; the astute reader cum arsonist obviously immediately kens that I am an extraordinary person indeed, and that simply dying in my bed, surrounded by my doting progeny, full of years and honors, and peacefully engaging in mortal-coil-shuffling would be a right bore for a Colossus of frisson like me. So in their affection, they apply the accelerant and Bic lighter in the comments to wish me well and hope for a more compelling end to my life, occasionally. Thanks!

I speak not of the DIAF crowd. Look at all the nice people in my comments from Monday, trying to steer me past the shoals of bad radio. People are helpful, indeed.

Of course I realize that upon close re-inspection, my comments do indeed look like a plea for musical succor; I can’t deny it. But before you kindly inform me of another digital streaming wonder for my ears to behold, I think I should point out the equipment involved. When I was six, I watched Kinchloe ring up the French Resistance on the wireless that Hogan’s Heroes kept under their floor, and to this day I think to myself: I wish I had a radio as good as that. Behold! Behold, all you cubicle dwellers, what the radio is like among we men of the sawdust and paint:

Again, don’t trouble yourselves with advice for me until I mention that the indicator on the dial fell down in the bottom of its little vertical den a decade ago, and refuses to cooperate further; so you have to twist the big knob around wildly looking for things without knowing if you’re above or below the equator of radio stations while you’re hunting around.

I know I must look like I’m showing off, as the radio that this one replaced when Carter was president didn’t have a knob or a dial, and you used a vise-grip on the knurled stubs to tune it.

I’m below ground in a concrete room filled with tools loaded with gigantic copper coils and fluorescent lights. It makes for an interesting tintinnabulation when you listen to AM and turn on the tablesaw, that’s for sure.

I captured a jaunty station that veers from the Scylla of Spanish to the Charybdis of Portuguese, hostwise, and plays salsa music day and night.

An embarrassment of riches, really.