A Radio Good Night

The lonely and creative hearts come out to play

No longer hushed by the glare of an unforgiving day.


The graveyard shift,

That’s what they call it

The graveyard shift,

a place where

they bury the dead

and other undesirables.

In radio

And other lonely places

The graveyard shift,

Creeps on.


Midnight to six am

Where people drift

When there is no place left to go.

For me, it was my voice, my opinions

and my music that was my shovel.

Losing myself in thoughts

Alone in the middle of the night.

Ideas and music flowed like wine

And I lost all track of time.


Then the phone would ring

Oh no, not a ring!

You can’t have things ringing

in the “On Air studio.”

A red flashing light

Endlessly flashing, flashing, flashing,

Becoming a scream

Refusing to be ignored

Answer me

Answer me, answer me

Phone call

Phone call.


And so many flashes later

I answer.

The voice said

My name is Tobey

Would you play a song for me?


A wonderful world happens after midnight

The lonely and creative hearts come out to play

No longer hushed by the glare of an unforgiving day.

So, do the strange

and deranged.

a cross-section of life begins to drift

In and out

On the graveyard shift.


The musicians finishing up their gigs

Dropping by because

Where do you go after two am?

When there is no place to go but home

And home is no place to go.


We had that in common

The night people

and me.

And I tried to

Keep us glad to be

night people.

It mostly worked.


Tobey was neither a lonely heart

Nor a musician

Just a night soul on a quest for tomorrows meaning

And yesterday’s reasons

A late-night spirit who came to listen

Not just to the show

But to this lonely gravedigger

And then she listened some more

More about this lonely

drifting voice in the dark.

 Me, both the ringmaster and the clown. 


And through so many passages

Of my life, she came to listen

Again, and then


Helping me through the

The long nights of the emotional soul

The journey from one growing old

To growing older.


Dreading the dimming of the light.

Cursing the flickering flame

fading in the middle of another night.

And years later

She came and cared again


I guess I never really let her know

How much she had my life

A possible dream

There on the graveyard shift.

A clear and moving stream.

Pushing time along

her memory will go with me


Thank you for all that could have been

And for what was

Good night Tobey.

Tennesse Whiskey

Written and performed first by David Allen Coe in 1981 and until tonight Coe’s version was the only one I had ever heard. I always thought it should be low down and bluesy which Coe tried but fell a bit short. Chris Stapleton and Justin Timberlake damn near threw a perfect horseshoe ringer, is it country, is it blues, rock or gospel, who cares its damn good music. https://youtu.be/WSfQw-Qhr14

Random Thoughts from Rambling Harbor

The trivia question for this week is, Who was the first president to call his residence in Washington, D.C., “The White House,” and what was it called before that?

Like many people, I’m still reeling from the election results. In last week’s blog, I toyed with the idea of putting an end to writing about politics, at least for a while. This is one of those times when I have so many thoughts running through my head it’s impossible to grab just one long enough to write about it. If I were to put my feelings in a traffic reporter’s jargon (and I did spend the last 5 years of my “live” radio career as a traffic and news reporter), it would sound something like this: There is a major backup through the gray matter causing residual delays into the heart zone, which is bringing the on-and-off arteries to a near stop. So what follows is a short list of random thoughts.

Random thought #1: Megyn Kelly is too good to be real. She has it all: She’s extremely intelligent, shows a lot of strength, and gives me the impression she is a really good, honest person, not to mention absolutely gorgeous. No wonder Donald Trump is afraid of her. I saw her interview with Anderson Cooper the other night, and while I am not easily impressed by media people, I was very impressed with her.

Random thought #2: Sarah Palin is on “The Donald’s” list for Interior Secretary. Really! The U.S. Department of the Interior uses sound science (notice the words sound science) to manage and sustain America’s lands, water, wildlife, and energy resources, honors our nation’s responsibilities to tribal nations, and advocates for America’s island communities. This is the same Sarah Palin who as Republican vice presidential nominee used the expression “Drill, baby, drill!” and didn’t know the address of the White House. If she gets the job, I wonder if they will call her Madam Shotgun Momma Secretary?

Random thought #3: I have heard a lot of talk about what would happen if Donald Trump was ousted. What if the majority of voters got their wish and the Electoral College voted as “unfaithful voters,” which they can do, and declared Hillary Clinton the president?  All hell would break loose! Well, it’s breaking loose anyway as Trump’s manic minions run wild with racial insults, harassment, and violence and in their warped minds think they have the blessings of the commander-in-chief.

Random thought #4: Tom Brady, quarterback of the New England Patriots, is doing new ads for Foot Locker, and the one I saw is really good. He goes into a controlled tirade about how questions and suspicions get blown out of proportion and become rumors that become investigations. He really digs into a deeper part of himself, and you can feel his emotions. It is very clear that he is ripping “Deflategate” apart, and his passion is so real I think he must have gone to the Lee Strasberg School of Method Acting.

Random thought #5: I don’t want to think anymore.

On the shores of Rambling Harbor, I will have the answer to the trivia question and as always some rock and roll news and history. I hope you’ll join me there.

SAD Winter

The trivia question for this week is, What Beatles sad song became their 20th and last number-one song in the United States? This was in June 1970 and was the last single they released as a group.

This is not just about me. I’m fortunate enough to have a relatively mild form of what is commonly referred to as SAD. SAD—seasonal affective disorder—is also known as winter depression or winter blues, but it can happen to some people in summer. it’s a mood disorder in which people who have normal mental health throughout most of the year experience depressive symptoms, usually at the same time each year and most commonly in the winter. From 4 to 6 percent have winter depression and another 10 to 20 percent have mild SAD. SAD is four times more common in women than in men. Although some children and teenagers get SAD, it usually doesn’t start in people younger than age 20. Your chance of getting SAD goes down as you get older. If you know someone who suffers from seasonal affective disorder, try to understand that it is recognized as a legitimate form of depression and that when dealing with those who do suffer from it, it’s real. I worked with a woman once who had it to such a degree that she would start crying at any given moment for no apparent reason. Thankfully, I am not that bad.

September begins the moody season for me, although some people who know me would say my moody season is every season, just different to some measure, and I guess I would have to agree. I would add, however, that my moods take a definite uptick in spring as my hope does spring eternal, at least until mid- to late-August when I realize September is lurking just around the corner. If September comes, can winter be far behind?

Although experts were initially skeptical, this condition is now recognized as a common disorder. SAD’s prevalence in the U.S. also varies with geography and increases as you go further north, ranging from 1.4 percent in Florida to 9.9 percent in Alaska.  A lot of causes have been proposed, and one study looked at whether some people could be predisposed to SAD based on personality traits such as high levels of neuroticism, agreeableness, openness, and avoidance-oriented coping disorders.

I love watching football. I played football from around the age of 8 through college. Until the last two years of my college days, I lived in a cold climate, and I sometimes wonder if my love of the game and my desire to smash into another human being “hell bent for leather,” as my old football coach use to say (and in those days it was leather) had anything to do with my general disagreeableness in winter. I wonder if I had lived in Florida, would I have preferred croquet or perhaps dashing about the green lawn in my tennis shorts under the palm trees for a bit of badminton perhaps.

At this very moment, I could probably program an entire 4 hours of radio music with nothing but sad tunes such as Elton John’s “Sad Songs (Say So Much).”

I’ll have a little more on SAD, some rock and roll news and history, and the answer to the trivia question in the podcast. I hope you join me on the shores of Rambling Harbor.


Click Below For The Shores Of Rambling Harbor

The Ocean: We Better Love It

The trivia question for this week: What is the only Beatles song that Ringo Starr is credited for having written alone?

Anyone who knows me or has read some of my blogs knows I love the ocean. In fact, it’s more than love, it’s a passion. It’s as if something from far away, some other life force, demands that I be near the sea.

It may seem odd that a kid born in Tennessee, the greenest state as noted in the Davy Crockett song, is in love with the ocean. After all, Knoxville, the city of my birth, is 435.1 miles from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where the closest ocean is, to the best of my reckoning (don’t ya just love the word reckoning?). I should be in love with mountains and forests and the like, and I do love mountains. I lived on one in West Virginia, a story I tell in the blog “Mountaintop Days.” I also love the desert. I’ve been lucky enough to have seen a great deal of my country, but it’s the ocean I feel closest to. As I wrote in my blog “Winter and the Lonely Surfer,” the ocean was and always will be the expression of the mysterious, especially at night. I wanted the depths of the darkness to talk to me and the ocean, the endless unknown ocean, where I could hear the splash of life.

Rambling Harbor is a very small peninsula located some place on the north shore of New England between Boston and  imagination. At high tide, when the small strip of land that connects it to the mainland is covered by water, it’s an island. There is a place I go in the summer to watch the few lobster boats come in and unload their catch of the day. Being a lobsterman or fisherman is hard work and it’s dangerous work, as detailed in the movie The Perfect Storm about the Andrea Gail, a commercial fishing vessel that was lost at sea with all hands after being caught in an unnamed hurricane in 1991 that was later referred to as the “perfect storm.” One thing that you see in these fishermen is that they love and respect the ocean.

For the most part, people who work on the ocean or live nearby have a great respect, love, and yes fear of the ocean. Oceans cover 71 percent of the earth’s surface and contain 97 percent of the earth’s water. Less than 1 percent of the water is fresh and 2–3 percent is contained in glaciers and ice caps. The oceans make up 99 percent of the living space on the planet.

When I walk along the beach, you’ll see me picking up plastic bottles and other debris that has washed ashore. You will also hear me screaming into the wind “F’ing slobs!” The people who live here or who make their living from the sea have too much love for it to dirty it. Most of the junk on the beach is not left by the people who live in the area, it floats in from the sea. In many cases, it’s junk that’s thrown overboard from cruise ships. There is a place known as “The Great Pacific Garbage Patch,” and it extends over an indeterminate area, with estimates ranging widely depending on the degree of plastic concentration used to define the affected area.

It makes me crazy that some people do not see or care how dependent we all are on the ocean. And if we keep treating it the way we do and if we all don’t start loving it, it will no longer love us and it will die and we will follow close behind.

In the podcast, there will be the answer to the trivia question, some more about the sea, and as always some rock and roll music and news. I hope you’ll join me on the shores of Rambling Harbor.

The Pet Rock

The trivia question for this week is, Besides the Pet Rock, something else was a big fad in 1975. It was something you wore, and if it was blue it meant you were happy. The answer is in the podcast.

A few days ago I posted on Facebook that I could no longer put pen to paper about Donald Trump, that even seeing his name in print made my stomach churn in very hostile ways. A friend on Facebook said, “Dan, it’s time to give it a break and take up a hobby, like rock collecting,” and I thought that was a brilliant idea.

Remember the Pet Rock? The Pet Rock was a genius of an idea conceived in a bar in Bonny Doon. Bonny Doon is a misleading name because it’s not located in Ireland or Scotland or any place you might think would use the term Bonny and Doon in the same breath. Nope, Bonny Doon is located in Santa Cruz County, California, at an elevation of 1,476 feet. The 2010 United States census, the most recent census figure I could find, reported Bonny Doon’s population was 2,678. It was founded in the 1850s as a logging camp, and John Burns, a Scotsman living in Santa Cruz, named Bonny Doon after a line in Robert Burns’s song “The Banks O’ Doon,” which refers to the Doon River in Scotland.

I’ve had a lot of ideas conceived in bars, but none I would ever remotely consider a stroke of genius. So here is this man named Gary Dahl, sitting in a bar at 1,476 feet above sea level in a town that had fewer people than most neighborhoods around the Bonny Town of Boston. I imagine he might have been downing a pint or two while listening to his friends’ complaints about their pets, and some place between pint one and pint two—at this point I should mention that Gary Dahl may not have even been a drinking man, but I think it adds something to the story—he came up with the idea of a Pet Rock. A rock would not need to be fed, walked, bathed, or groomed and would not die, become sick, or become unruly. Dahl figured it would be the perfect pet and joked about it with his friends. But he also took his idea seriously and composed an “instruction manual” for a pet rock. The manual was full of puns, gags, and plays on words that referred to the rock as an actual pet.

The rock was a smooth stone from Mexico’s Rosarito Beach. Pet Rocks were marketed like live pets and had their own custom cardboard boxes, with straw bedding and breathing holes for the “animal.” The fad lasted about six months, ending after a short uptick in sales around the 1975 Christmas season, but by February 1976, they were discounted due to lower sales. Dahl sold 1.5 million Pet Rocks for $4 each and became a millionaire. He died on March 23, 2015, at the age of 78. Rosebud Entertainment currently holds the United States trademark rights to the Pet Rock.

I followed my Facebook friend’s advice to give myself a break from Trump and decided to take it a step further. There are a number of expressions comparing someone’s intelligence to a turnip, and most of us have come to realize that Donald Trump is not in possession of one of the most gifted intellects on this planet (all ideas expressed here are copyrighted, and I am the sole owner). But if a genius marketer or manufacturer would like to negotiate, I am available to offer a money-making idea. If you haven’t guessed—Are you ready for this? Wait for it. Here it comes!—it’s the Trump Turnip!

In the podcast, I’ll have the answer to the trivia question, maybe some political venting, and as always some rock and roll news and history. I hope you’ll join me on the bonny shores of Rambling Harbor.



As I said in last week’s blog, I’m going to be looking at different years in my life, not necessarily in any particular order and indeed not because they were remarkable due to the fact that I lived in them but simply because I happen to have been alive during those years.

In 1980, I was just getting back into broadcasting after having been in and out of radio and in and out of prison. On November 4th, the actor Ronald Reagan was elected president, and the cost of a gallon of gas was $1.19. In 1980, the “Miracle on Ice” happened, and it had nothing to do with keeping your ice from melting in your Scotch glass. It happened during the Olympics. The US hockey team, which was the underdog, won the gold medal against the favored Soviets. The “Miracle on Ice” is still considered to be one of the greatest moments in sports and one of the best ice hockey games ever played. Speaking of Scotch, there was a song on the Billboard Hot 100 Chart that year that did have to do with alcohol. Do you know what song that was? The answer is in the podcast.

Also in music, at the end of 1980, Billboard’s ratings listed the number one song of the year as Blondie’s “Call Me,” number two was “Another Brick in the Wall – Part Two” by Pink Floyd, and checking in at number three was “Magic” by Olivia Newton-John. On December 8, 1980, I was working the 10 p.m.–2 a.m. air shift when at around 11:25 p.m. the newswire machine went berserk and a bulletin came over from the Associated Press that John Lennon had been shot. I will have more on that in the podcast.

Now let’s try this one: the press has been banned from speeches by someone attempting to take over the country. This person is saying they will start to round up anyone they deem to be unacceptable and send them away.  Because reporters have been banned and free speech and reporting are being taken away, I’m fearful that groups may carry out book burnings of works considered to be contrary to government policies. If this sounds like I lived in Germany in 1933, if you think I lived under Hitler, you’re wrong. This is America in 2016 as a lunatic named Donald Trump has already banned The Washington Post reporters from attending his speeches, which effectively breaks the First Amendment to the United States Constitution, which guarantees, among other things, freedom of speech and freedom of the press. Trump threatens to build a wall separating us from countries he doesn’t like and round up people he finds undesirable and send them away. This is not Hitler’s Germany of 1933. This is now. In America. In 2016.

There’s more on music, a little politics, and the answer to that trivia question at the end of paragraph two on the shores of Rambling Harbor. I hope you’ll join me there.

This Way To The Podcast On The Shores Of Rambling Harbor

The Poet, Not the Politician. Please Pass the Idiom.

I have also decided that you cannot make a political essayist out of a poet, at least not a happy poet. I have spent the last few months primarily writing about politics and particularly

Connors and Brooksby farms S3ptember 2015 020 goatMy mother regularly used the expression you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, an expression I’m sure most of us have heard in one form or another. Its general meaning is that you can’t make something good out of something bad.

I’ve been thinking about idioms lately and where that particular one originated and discovered there’s a lot of conjecturing as to just where it did begin. The range is someplace between the devil and the deep blue sea, from the dying words of Hamlet to the Reverend Jonathan Swift in 1801, but an English satirist named Stephen Gosson seems to have made a like statement centuries earlier in The Ephemerides of Phialo in 1579. But one thing I do know for certain is that my mother used it time and time again. Usually, when I wanted something better than what I had.

I have also decided that you cannot make a political essayist out of a poet, at least not a happy poet. I have spent the last few months primarily writing about politics and particularly about my disdain for and fear of Donald Trump who might possibly become president of our country. To be perfectly clear about this, I have in no way tried to make a silk purse out of him and would never insult a pig by any comparison.

In my attempt to convey how I feel about this demon who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, I have all but lost track of who I am. I am a person with a proclivity for poetry, prose, poems, promulgation, and apparently alliteration, and that seems to make me happy as a clam. (If you’re wondering why clams are happy, this may shed some light on that. The original version is “as happy as a clam at high water.” Hide tide is when clams are free from predators.)

My politics are similar to my religion. I consider myself a spiritual person but almost never go to church, but I pay attention and I do pray. I consider myself a political person but never campaign for anyone, but I pay attention and I do vote.

In last week’s podcast, I had a meltdown. As I said then, I was sick of self-obsessing about Donald Trump, and it was true then and it rings truer now. I also realize that mostly I am preaching to the choir because most of my readers already agree with me and the ones who don’t have left me high and dry. (The phrase “preaching to the choir” probably had its origin as “preaching to the converted,” first cited in the works of John Stuart Mill. He used the phrase in An Examination of Sir W. Hamilton’s Philosophy, 1867.)

Now as we approach the eleventh hour of the political process, I have decided to let sleeping dogs lie and return to the poetry, prose, music-loving, storytelling person I am and have my blogs and podcast be what I have always intended them to be, informative and fun. I hope and pray and will vote that Donald Trump is here today and gone tomorrow.

On the shores of Rambling Harbor, there will be a few more idle thoughts on one thing or another and some rock and roll history, but of course, that’s not carved in stone. I hope you’ll join me there.This way to the shores of Rambling Harbor

Copyright © 2016 Daniel (Dan) Sanders. All rights