Today is Epiphany. So I sit here and wait and wait for it. Meanwhile, there is a radio revolution in India. (I am entranced my the notion of going there, have been since I was a kid. My sitar is still stored somewhere north of New York City. It's also waiting for an epiphany to arrive, I guess.) Oh, yes. a radio revolution in India. This interests me because, as a former broadcaster, I am also riveted by radio. It gets in your blood -- like Hep C.
More than 300 FM radio licenses are up for grabs in India, offering service to 90 cities. FM radio, for some reason, has never taken off in India. That may soon change. One thing, though. The formats are limited to entertainment and the ubiquitous Bollywood music. All news and current affairs programming remains under the aegis of India State Radio. It appears that Delhi would not want these stations "falling into the wrong hands," given the tempestuous nature of Indian politics.
I am beginning to fantasize about a "Good Morning, Benares!" show. Today, I write from the "office" at The Crepe House in San Francisco -- my wireless hot spot on Polk at Washington. I've become all too familiar here. They start preparing my caffeine-free English Afternoon tea as I come traipsing through the door. (English tea? I know. Next thing, I'll be taking up cricket, right? But I can't find any caffeine-free Irish Breakfast Tea and the Irish Coffees are now off-limits.) Yes, I have even given up caffeine. That was tougher than giving up hooch. But I am adjusting to what it feels like not to be under the influence of one thing or another. I remember a gal with whom I worked at KCBS who told me that she gave up coffee because she did not like the person she would change into during the course of the morning after quaffing three or four cups of Joe.
In the D.A. Pennebaker doc on Elaine Stritch (Did I tell you I appear in it with Rod McKuen?), a recovering alcoholic, tells the story of seeing George Gobel standing in the wings with a drink in his hand. Another actor walks up, preparing to go on stage.
"Where's your drink?" Gobel asks.
"Gave it up," he replied.
"You mean," Gobel asked incredulously, "you're going out there ALONE?"
"Now," Stritch tells the audience, "I'm out here alone."
I know the feeling.
Faithfully, Bellingham
More than 300 FM radio licenses are up for grabs in India, offering service to 90 cities. FM radio, for some reason, has never taken off in India. That may soon change. One thing, though. The formats are limited to entertainment and the ubiquitous Bollywood music. All news and current affairs programming remains under the aegis of India State Radio. It appears that Delhi would not want these stations "falling into the wrong hands," given the tempestuous nature of Indian politics.
I am beginning to fantasize about a "Good Morning, Benares!" show. Today, I write from the "office" at The Crepe House in San Francisco -- my wireless hot spot on Polk at Washington. I've become all too familiar here. They start preparing my caffeine-free English Afternoon tea as I come traipsing through the door. (English tea? I know. Next thing, I'll be taking up cricket, right? But I can't find any caffeine-free Irish Breakfast Tea and the Irish Coffees are now off-limits.) Yes, I have even given up caffeine. That was tougher than giving up hooch. But I am adjusting to what it feels like not to be under the influence of one thing or another. I remember a gal with whom I worked at KCBS who told me that she gave up coffee because she did not like the person she would change into during the course of the morning after quaffing three or four cups of Joe.
In the D.A. Pennebaker doc on Elaine Stritch (Did I tell you I appear in it with Rod McKuen?), a recovering alcoholic, tells the story of seeing George Gobel standing in the wings with a drink in his hand. Another actor walks up, preparing to go on stage.
"Where's your drink?" Gobel asks.
"Gave it up," he replied.
"You mean," Gobel asked incredulously, "you're going out there ALONE?"
"Now," Stritch tells the audience, "I'm out here alone."
I know the feeling.
Faithfully, Bellingham
