Category Archives: story teller

Winter

The hibernal solstice, the winter solstice, or midwinter.

I’ve come to prefer hibernal as it applies to animals that hibernate in winter.

Even the sun wants to seek shelter below the smallest ridge or tree line.

As if saying I’ve spent my time.

Saying goodnight earlier and earlier and letting the cold wind and snow have its way.

And like the other animals that shelter in their space

I too prefer to view the earth through curtains from my hiding place.

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A lonely Question

Darkness comes too soon

For the lonely

Midnight last longer

The pain cuts deeper

Nights never end

Day never begins

The sadness starts

The aching deep within

Then morning comes

The sun is bright

And you try again

For what else is there?

 

 

A little Piece of Blue

The sun sets west of me

And if the light is just right

It cast a little piece of blue

Across the sky just before night

Disappearing beyond the tress like you

The clouds take on a glow of light

Just west of me then out of sight

You left to go not far

From where I started

A course of life still uncharted

Sitting on the White House lawn

Surrounded by unrest

To a Stool in a cheese shop

Wanting only  rest

Drifting away

Now worlds from anything

I had ever known as real

Floating on a vagabond’s ship of memories

Attempting to gain an even keel

A soft voice

A simple request

May I have a little piece of blue

I need to tell you before the sun sets

In the west one last time

And while the light is just right

Sometimes I miss those days

And think of you

And the gifts you gave

For a little piece of blue.

Jumping Off, and Blind Dreams

Jumping Off

People have said, implied, suggested, and even attempted to cajole me, for whatever reasons unknown to me, to write a book about my life. I have resisted that idea for the same reason I rarely watch a movie or read a book more than once. I’ve not only seen it and read it, I wrote it. I know what happens next, and what fun is that? The more interesting thing to me is not what I’ve done or where I’ve been, but what I’ll do and see next. So I’m not going to write the book. However, after managing to avoid the grim reaper for as long as I have, maybe I’ve experienced some things that will either be funny or sad or maybe even informative, and the best I can hope for by sharing is to be helpful.

Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” And if there’s one thing I have, it’s untold stories, and many will be left untold until sooner or later they are scattered silently in the wind along with the “dust” of me.

I stopped blogging well over a year ago except for the occasional paragraph regarding some musical event. When I was blogging once a week, thanks to my friends at KISW, “The Rock of Seattle,” who ran those blogs and podcasts each week, I became obsessed with politics and the Orange Round Mound of Sound Clown running the Big Top Circus in DC.  I will still at times concern myself with the swamp blob’s attempt to annihilate us all, but I think I have better stories to tell and will concentrate on those while hoping that orange will become the new black for him. So here goes. Installment one I call “Blind Dreams.”

 

Blind Dreams

Waking up blind in the morning when you went to sleep the night before and you could see just fine is a very scary thing. Fortunately for me, it was a relatively minor thing, as I’ll explain, but it gave me insight into how it must feel to live your life in darkness, and I think it’s also one of the reasons that to this day I have issues with sunsets and nighttime, but that’s another story for another time, maybe.

Imagine you’re three maybe four years old and you wake up, you know you’re awake, you can move, arms and legs all in working order, but you’re afraid because you can’t see. Everything is black, total darkness, no light. I knew I was awake by the sounds of my home. I could hear my mother in the kitchen and my dad leaving for work, my collie Lady sniffing around and my parakeet Sugar Boy flying from room to room, perch to perch. It was a very scary feeling for the very young boy, and sometimes still is today for the old man, to wake up and not see, but the problem was not with my eyes. It was my eyelashes. I had very long lashes and they would get stuck together while I slept, stuck so tight that I could not move my eyelids apart to see. One of my first and cherished memories of my mother was her carrying me to the kitchen and placing me on the counter where she would take a warm washcloth and gently rub my eyes until I could open them.

The radio was a faithful companion to this caring process. Usually, it would be tuned to a country station—after all, what else would you have in early 1950’s Tennessee with a mom from the mountains? The voices of Hank Williams, Sr., Ernest Tubb, and Patsy Cline would keep us company as my mother tenderly brought me into the light again. But sometimes it would be Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club. Don McNeill came to our home all the way from Chicago. Even at my early age, I knew Chicago was a long way from Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and I thought what a miraculous feat for a man so far away to be talking to me in my home. It was probably Don McNeill that planted the first seeds of being a radio professional in my young mind. I remember listening to him and thinking what fun that must be.

Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club had a thirty-five-and-a-half-year run and remains the longest tenure for an emcee of a network entertainment program, surpassing Johnny Carson’s twenty-nine-and-a-half years on The Tonight Show and Bob Barker’s thirty-four-and-two-thirds years on The Price Is Right, although McNeill’s was split between radio and television, whereas the latter two were television only. I remember listening to Don’s magnificent voice and show and saying to my fledgling self, “I think I would like to fly like that someday,” and so I did.

Unlike some of my friends who took to the open mic and stayed there, I was often between radio gigs for a lot of different reasons and would find myself working at some retail job or customer service job and many other forms of painful employment.  One time when I was bemoaning my fate, as I grumbled about my life, a friend asked me, “Did you get a chance to live your dream?” and I answered yes. She said, “Do you know how many people never get that chance?”

Yes, that little temporarily blind kid, who listened to country music and Don MacNeill’s Breakfast Club, did get a chance to live his dream. And it has been a long, strange, and mostly wonderful trip.

Alone

There were colorful lights and people singing

Santa’s in windows

And popcorn stringing

I spent Christmas alone.

News years came and bells were ringing

Promises made and children singing

Skyrockets flashing across the sky

Helping to hide the tears in my eye

I spent New Year’s alone.

My birthday rolled in

As it does every year

Some seem to notice

But most didn’t care

I spent my birthday alone.

We come in and go out of this world on our own

I’ve had plenty of practice at being alone

But still at night as the north wind moans

It scares me to think

With my eyes final wink

I’ll still be alone.

Once There Was A Time

Once there was a time. It was a perfect storm of music, issues, and people all coming together at just the right time in just the right way in just the right places. Once there was a time that I think will never be equaled, and sometimes when I feel old—and those times happen more and more to me every day now—I see something or hear some music from the 1960’s and very early 1970’s, and I remember and  I smile. I smile knowing that yes, once there was a time, and I was there.

A very good friend told me the other day that I was his favorite hippie, and I told him it was likely that I am the only hippie he knows given our age difference and that we old hippie radio DJ’s are a dying breed.

I think many younger people today, and even some in my age group who might have somehow escaped the scars of the sixties, don’t realize that their idea of hippie is not what they might think. All hippies were not pot heads dancing naked at Woodstock or jamming to the Dead at the Fillmore. To me and to a lot of others, it was a belief, a lifestyle, and a commitment that while the world was not perfect, we could and would make it better.

I said “scars of the sixties” because of something I call “movement casualties.” We are the survivors who once believed so strongly in–and forgive me for using these terms—peace and love and making changes for the better, and then we watched as all our hopes crumbled. We watched as John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King fell to hatred stronger than our love. We watched as Brian Epstein, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan­­­­­­­­, ­­Phil Ochs, and many others left us behind. But we kept on believing, and maybe for many the final blow came when John Lennon was killed.

We old hippies learned that all the things we thought we could do were not strong enough to stop bullets of hate or the despair of a drug overdose or a raging social or political lunatic.

My friend replied to my statement about being a dying breed by telling me it was time to pass the torch and joked that he would start growing out what was left of his hair, growing it long. I said the tie dye was optional, but he would need either a peace earring or a pendant.

Just recently I realized that I was indeed tired. Maybe I had continued the struggle longer than most and got tired of trying. I posted this on Facebook last Wednesday: “I quit. I am tired of jokers and fools and arguments. I am tired of trying to convince anyone that certain things are just plain wrong, so I quit. I tried. Now go on and believe what you want, do what you want, and say what you want because it has become obvious that nothing I can say will make a difference in your way of thinking. So I quit. More on this on Sunday.” Well, here it is Sunday.

Maybe I should go put on some Grateful Dead or John Lennon music and remember and be glad that once there was a time. It was a perfect storm of music, issues, and people all coming together at just the right time in just the right way in just the right places. And I was there.

To Sail or Sink,or Drown Trying

August 4th would have been Jennifer’s birthday if cancer had not wiped away that celebration from my life. I still commemorate her by remembering her unstoppable spirit. Jennifer woke up every day and grabbed the bull rope with one hand, threw the other high above her head, and yelled, “Let’s go do life.” For Jennifer, there was only one way to live and that was to ride it to the bell. Jennifer did not become that way after learning she had cancer. She was born that way.

One September night, windows open, wind calm, total silence, I heard two bells: One, two, swift ring, ring. Only twice did it ring, one, two. Whatever was tugging on the bell-rope knew it would be understood. Two rings, loud and clear. I have ears that have always heard even the tufted feet of my Maine Coon cat as he crossed my carpeted floor, but I had never heard this sound before. But now, two bells clean, clear, and near, just outside my window. Once, twice, gone, silence. Earlier that day, we had learned that my wife’s fourteen-year battle against cancer was entering a zone of last chances. “Chemo is not working. We have nothing else to offer you at this time.” Those words will haunt me for the rest of my life, and they ring as clearly as bells in the middle of the night.

The summer of 2010 was her last generally healthy summer, but she was also in phase one trials at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Phase one trials are done with experimental drugs on people when traditional chemo treatments have failed. She took a drug that less than a dozen people had ever tried; I think the actual number was only six people before her. Jennifer would say lab rats had a better life than she did, but she said that with a big smile and a happy heart, feeling much sadder for the lab rat than herself. She also said that she knew it was unlikely that the drugs would save her life but maybe somewhere down the road and just around the bend they would save someone else’s. In this final summer, Jennifer decided against my better judgment to become part of a small crew aboard an all-wooden, 118-foot, totally wind-blown sailing ship with the appropriate name of Raw Faith. Raw Faith ( pictured above) was well known for not being seaworthy, having been rescued several times by the Coast Guard, and had come dreadfully close to descending to the bottom of the Atlantic at least once. She had been built by a man whose heart was bigger than his shipbuilding and sailing abilities, and her purpose was to take handicapped children on seafaring adventures. While I wasn’t sure how far we would make it, surer we would more likely sink than sail, Jennifer was sure we were going sailing and by god then, sail we would, or sink trying.

 

I love Old Things For What They Bring

I love old things

For what they bring

Memories of those that touched them

And now are gone.

They loved them long before

My name was known

Then they touched me

And now are gone

The pain wounds the heart

But  still I love old things

 And memories 

For what they bring.

The Farm

The following is just a small part of a story I started over two years ago called Mountaintop Days. Most of the story is still here on my website but the whole story has never been told. This part popped up on the great wide web and it’s a fond memory, so I am republishing it alone. I hope you like it.

The Farm

Just south of Kane, Pennsylvania, and a little west of Johnsonburg, there was a farm that had existed in some form or other long before the Civil War and had served to hide runaway slaves and those seeking to escape the tyranny of southern plantation owners. It was protected from the east by cliffs and mountains that literally bordered the large creek that ran across the back of the farmland. The front of the farm was cleared so that a small dirt road flanked by large expanses of land led the way to the farmhouse, making it easy to see anyone approaching from the front. To the left of the house stood a barn, open on both ends, and from the back of this barn ran a secret trail that led into 512,998 acres, or 801.6 square miles, of wilderness that was the Allegheny National Forest. It is easy to imagine that anyone could escape forever into that vastness, even a modern-day fugitive, and it would also be easy to imagine that many a runaway slave became a great dinner for a bear or mountain lion, not knowing where they were going or what to be aware of how to survive. I did not intend to become dinner for anyone and especially did not want to test my survival skills. After all, I had only come here to leave West Virginia, my original destination being a warm Virginia Beach, accompanied by a bottle of tequila, a ripe lime, some salt, and a Southern belle whose closest association to a cow was the local hamburger stand. I didn’t drink much, and the Southern belle did not materialize. After all, Emily was still living in my heart. However, after bathing in a running stream or in some hot water heated over a large fireplace, I must say the thought of ocean water and the warmth of my original plan sounded good.

But here I was on a farm probably 300 years old by 1968 that had been a refuge for so many seeking survival, seeking freedom, and seeking peace. It was now welcoming me into the fold of their attempted sanity away from a world rapidly losing its mind.

The farm was now home to an artists’ commune composed of writers, musicians, painters, and all manner of less-than-mainstream-conformist pacifists, a few inhabitants having been there since its inception in the early 1950’s. Legend has it that Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac had actually stayed there, Kerouac just before On the Road was published in 1951. Imagine what a heady experience it was for a young man like me to be there, on the road and out to change the world, with hopes of becoming not the next Jack Kerouac, but more, oh so much more. Jack had shown the way, and I was going to find new roads and bring the world to a new place. Yes, I was!

My days on this farm would be short but colored beautifully and forever by the changing leaves and the mountains ablaze with the kaleidoscope of fall and by a woman named Alice. Alice was an intensely gifted artist who made the mountains come alive on canvas and who had a talking parrot that loved to repeat only the words her ex-husband had taught it just before he left her: “Fuck you, Alice.”

 

The Gambler and Me.

For me, it was a Greyhound Bus Station in St. Petersburg, the one in Florida not Russia around 1974. And as I sat there listing to the bombardment of departure announcements, busses now departing for all places north, south, east, and west, and I thought and many places in between. This old gentleman came over and sat down next to me. We listen together for a few minutes and then he looked over at me and said “I’m not going anywhere myself, I’m just resting.  “

 

Woody the Lion and Me, A St. Paddys Day tale

It’s the eve of St. Paddy’s Day 2018, in the most Irish town in America, Boston, and what better day to have an eve (small e) on than a Friday depending on the Eve (capital E) any day could be a fine one. And so, I have decided to tell you a story, an Irish story it’s one of many I have but this one happens to be true, pass the bottle, please. I was sitting in the game room occasionally known as the conference room of a radio station one day as we drank a few beers hit a few shots of Jack Daniels back and smoked a few illegals and no not aliens. We were talking about nationalities. It seems everyone had a bit of Irish on them this day even a guy named Feinberg (I used an alias for him) So finally after a few more beer and shots it was my turn to tell my nationality, pass the bottle, please. I started with the strongest two and that was as far as I got. I was never able to add and a little of this and little of that nationality. There was a guy there with thick long red hair and a bushy red beard, a very Irish lad indeed named O’Rourke (I made that name up for him, I think), pass the bottle, please. O’Rourke looked a lot like the original cowardly lion from The Wizard of Oz. So finally, the bottle and my turn rolled around, time for me to lay claim to my birthrights and I began to proudly announce that I was half, wait, before I get to that did I tell you that Feinberg, not their real name looked a lot like Woody Allen, and I didn’t make that up or  what O’Rourke looked like, don’t reread if you forgotten he looked like the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz.  So, my turn. Yes, my turn to drink, toke and talk, if I still could? And of course I can, I’m a highly rained Ofessional Brewdcaster. And if you have read and followed me this far I’ll bet you’re saying this better be worth it, well it’s not you can stop now.

So here we are, Woody the Lion and Me on the eve of March 17, which is supposedly the day of St. Patrick’s death.  I’ve never been sure why we celebrate that, dying doesn’t sound like party time to me. And now it’s my turn to proclaim my DNA results, I am, I said proudly part Irish and part Cherokee Indian. At this, Woody felt faint as the lion stood up with red hair and red beard and eyes ablaze and said, “My God man you’re an alcoholic looking for a place to happen”. To which I replied, and I found it, pass the bottle, please.

 

Memories

I’ve had a theory for a long time that as years pass and we look back on our personal history and at the people and events that have come and gone in our lives, we develop something I call compressed remembrance. It’s a feeling that something that occurred many years before happened only yesterday. Time collapses and years become weeks, weeks become days, and days seem like only hours.

On Friday, November 22, 1963, I was in history class, and it seems surreal that I would have been in history class on a date that will be read about for hundreds of years. I have no idea what I was thinking about before the news was delivered to the classroom. I probably had my mind on the upcoming Thanksgiving football game and practice after class. I’m sure I was not listening to Mrs. Loffler drone on about the Magna Carta or the Louisiana Purchase. I don’t remember the names of most of my high school teachers and fewer names of my college professors, but I remember Mrs. Loffler because she was there that day. That was the day that John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas.  I can still hear how her voice changed as she gave some brief explanation and told us that school would be ending early.  I remember feeling very detached from whatever new reality was taking place and annoyed that whatever this event was had suddenly disrupted my well-planned afternoon and weekend.

Quickly now it’s 21 years later, November 23, 1984. I’m no longer living on Staten Island, a naive teenager dreaming of gridiron glory. I’ve resisted a war, lived in the mountains of West Virginia, and been to prison. I’m back in radio and living in Boston. The Boston College Eagles are playing the University of Miami. There are 28 seconds left in the game, and Miami is leading 45 to 40 when some too-small-to-play quarterback guy named Doug Flutie dropped back and let what became known as the “Hail Mary” touchdown pass take flight. It traveled 48 yards, taking what seemed like forever to go that distance and reach its target, Gerard Phelan, and gave the football Eagles a 47-45 victory. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Fast forward. It’s now 2017, and I am watching what will be remembered as the greatest Super Bowl ever played. My granddaughter is about to become the same age I was on November 22, 1962: Sixteen, a magical age full of hopes and dreams but also fear. She was born into a time when the world seems to teeter constantly on the brink of disaster. I’m watching a man named Tom Brady who is leading the New England Patriots to a mind-blowing come-from-behind victory over the Atlanta Falcons. No team in history has ever come from 21 points behind to win a Super Bowl, but in the last quarter New England tied the game and went on to win in the first Super Bowl overtime in history. I saw people laughing and cheering and watched, even if only for a twinkling, the cares and troubles of their everyday lives dissolve away. I was proud of my city of Boston as they danced in the streets, not one-act of violence and no arrests. I have a few more years to keep that memory.

We live in a world where smiles and good times are difficult to come by, and we don’t have many years in a lifetime to make memories. I read somewhere that someday we will only be a memory to someone, and we should do our best to make sure it’s a good one. Trust me, I’m dancing as fast as I can.

 

Heroes

It will be easy for some people, likely many people to think I’m reposting this in a see I told you so manner and on some level, that may be true. When I first published it I got a lot of grief about it from people saying I was defending a thug, a gang member, and a killer. What I was trying to say then and what I am trying to say now is we should never rush to judgment of anyone and especially our so-called heroes when they disappoint us.

We place our heroes on pedestals, athletes because they can catch or run or hit a ball better than anyone else, movie stars because they can deliver a line written by someone else better than anyone else, or in the case of some actors like an Eastwood or Stallone because they can grimace or groan better than anyone else. We place them all on high and kneel before a throne called the box office. We pay them ridiculous amounts of money and let them live fairy-tale lives, but god help them if they disappoint us by proving they are human, that they have feet of clay.

I am reminded of a scene from a good movie called My Favorite Year, released in 1982, starring a really good actor, Peter O’Toole. O’Toole plays an aging, swashbuckling actor named Allan Swann who, because he is also a raging drunk, is taken under the wing of a junior comedy writer named Benjy who has always looked up to the actor. When he learns that his hero has feet of clay, he starts to become disillusioned, and when Swann proclaims that he is not a hero, he is an actor, Benjy says he needs heroes, needs them larger than life, needs to look up to them.

Benjy was right. We need real-life heroes. We all need someone to look up to, and we need heroes trying to save us, something we can believe in. When we find out they are not who we thought, that they have an Achilles heel, it totally disrupts our emotions, sending us head over heels into an “I can’t accept this” state of mind.

It may surprise many New Englanders, but there are people across America who have barely if ever, heard of Aaron Hernandez. He was a hometown hero, and when he seemingly let us down, some turned on him with a vengeance. When news broke that he had apparently killed himself, many danced on his grave, forgetting that we were the ones who made him larger than life. It was our hard-earned dollars that gave him a $40 million a year contract, and it was our hero-worship that made him infallible.

I think we do need larger-than-life heroes, but we are not going to find them on the silver screen, the baseball diamond, or the football gridiron, and we don’t need to pay them ridiculous amounts of money. The real heroes are firefighters, police, teachers, and doctors, to name just a few, and how about the amputee who carried his guide across the finish line at the Boston Marathon? Now that’s my idea of a hero. But I will not forget he is also human, not a god.

You may be convinced that Aaron Hernandez did it, but I am not convinced. I am convinced that he was a person with a multitude of emotional and mental issues and a victim of a system that would have rather had him play football than help him with his problems, as we knelt before a throne called the box office.

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.

 

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