I am the
techno Sadhu on my
public powered community arts powered radio, AND THIS IS
Welcome, and thank you very much for listening.…
Hello to everyone out there in the world who have picked us up on the internet…Hey hello to Jack …one of the many generous patrons that made my journey in early October to the Grassroots Radio Coalition Conference possible…jack I’m not good on the phone… and howdy to all you good people in the Galesteo Basin and the Tijeras ridgeline …
This is the 75th lap with me… the Techno Sadhu,
what a privilege it is to have these two hours…
…I believe in the potential of this radio nation we have…and another amazing and intriguing post from www.radiosurvivor.com…
This is a transitional time for community radio, unprecedented in the medium’s more than 60-year history in the U.S. Thousands of new LPFM stations are going on the air bringing service to communities that never had community radio, or adding new services to supplement existing community stations.
At the same time many community stations risk becoming irrelevant, more so than ever before. This would be a tragedy, and one that can be averted if station programmers and management are willing to question some age-old assumptions and take a fresh look at their schedules.
We’re in the middle of a tectonic shift in how people use mass media. The internet delivers audio, video and text to people almost everywhere. Yes, radio is still used weekly by more than 90% of Americans, but how it’s used, and who uses the medium has changed more rapidly than most community stations’ ability to keep up.
Stations cannot take their value for granted. People in your community do not use media like they did 20 years ago. In particularly, young people do not use radio in the same way, if they use radio at all.
Take a look at a typical community radio station’s schedule grid and you can’t help but think little has changed since 1996 (or even 1976). What you’ll probably see is a patchwork of shows of varying formats and genres. Many stations lend some predictability to the schedule by laying out strips of similar programming, typically on weekdays, reserving, say, 5 to 7 PM for news and talk programming. Even so, the apparent coherence of these programming strips may belie the fact that programming will vary widely depending on the DJ or producer who has that slot on any given day.
Don’t get me wrong, eclecticism and heterogeneity rank amongst community radio’s great qualities, differentiating it from strictly formatted commercial stations. But this kind of schedule has always been an Achilles’ heel, too. That’s because the average person doesn’t know how to listen to community radio.
The average listener is raised on single-format radio, simply because that’s what 90% of the dial sounds like. Scan the dial just about anywhere in the U.S. in you’ll learn that you can rely on one station for country music, another for soft rock and yet another for public radio talk. It’s so knit into the fabric of the medium that when someone hears Led Zeppelin blaring from 95.9 FM, they immediately assume that’s where they can return to hear more dinosaurs of hard rock. They don’t tune back in to hear Dwight Yoakum or Mozart.
Of course an eclectic schedule is not a difficult concept to grasp. Despite the trend on cable towards more homogenous channels, a single TV network affiliate still programs talk, news, comedy, drama and sports on one channel, and viewers have no problem navigating it. But it’s always been that way–the model has been around since the dawn of television, and so viewers of all ages grew up learning to use it.
I’m not arguing that it’s a bad thing to ask your listeners to expend a little effort to get the most out of your station. The problem is that there is less incentive for them to do so than 20 years ago.
In the mid-90s if you wanted to explore music from the continent of Africa it either required a trip to the public library, blindly buying some CDs, or checking out a community radio station. Taking economics and effort into account, the community station might have been the path of least resistance–it cost nothing, you didn’t have to leave home, and a knowledgable DJ would be your guide.
Today that music is just a click away in Pandora, Spotify, Youtube, or any number of dedicated internet radio streams. Certainly, that expert community radio DJ probably picks better tunes and will give listeners much more information and context than a Pandora stream. But that hardly matters if the listener never even looks for a community station.
Or maybe she does, but every time she tunes in she hears talk programming. So, let’s say that our listener checks out the station’s website to see when she can find some African music and sees the show airs Saturdays at 3 PM. Only that’s the time when she has other obligations and can’t listen to the radio. Game over. It’s much more expedient to just fire up that Pandora stream.
Now imagine that our listener is more like 18 or 21 years old. Would it even occur to her that she should turn on the radio to find something other than the usual?
Certainly these barriers existed in the mid-90s, too. Except there were far fewer alternatives. Back then I knew many people who were like me. When they went to a new town one of the first things they did was scan the radio dial looking for something good, unique or out-of-the-ordinary. Special attention was paid to the left end of the dial, understanding that’s where you might find that special college or community station. These days, it’s the rare young person who tells me he does this–rarer, I’ll argue, than a 20-something in 1996.
The conundrum this poses for community radio is declining audience, as would-be listeners choose other platforms and young listeners never develop the habit. This means many listeners who really benefit from community radio will miss out.
This is not mere inconvenience, but a tragedy waiting to happen, as we wait for the mainstream media to fall in line to further soften and normalize the racist, xenophobic and misogynist policies of our president-elect and his administration. Community radio cannot be an effective corrective and beacon for humanist values if the people who need to hear the message don’t know to tune in.
So what’s the solution? Destroy the programming grid and start from scratch? Take a card from commercial and public radio’s deck and homogenize as much as possible?
No, I think there’s another way. A way in which community radio can retain it’s diversity and eclecticism, while also becoming more accessible to more people who need to hear it. I’ll make that proposal in my next post.
I DON’T THINK WE NEED TO WAIT FOR THE NEXT POST…
KMRD FM LP 96.9 is a VANGUARD
for a whole new era of radio communication in
Sylvia Thomas…The difference in Public Radio and Community Radio is Participatory Development as opposed to the “elite” that community radio making incReDIBLE CHANGES…MADE ON SO LITTLE RESOURCES AND so much creaTIVITY….ONE THING DIFFERENT IS THE PATCHWORK…FIND ONE SHOW BUT THE NEXT DAY COMPLETELY DIFFERENT…
coming up….in the next…. minutes or so… Will be my thought of the day, a new ZenCowboy short story… some poetry, and I’m picking up my experience of living on the island of Corsica for three years…
The techno Sadhu Radio
theater of the Absurd and the
HARLEQUIN MOON… Will be chapter 5…….
THE HARLEQUIN MOON is a quartete OF
FOUR DECades or
AS i HAVE penned IT… a Qua-traiN… a quartette of 4 decades on a train
going down the long track of
it is the tale of a man in search of his soul, while hounded by memory of being an assassin of not only innocent people, but the emotion of LOVE itself…
…in literary terms this work is called a biographical narrative fiction, in that many of the characters and situations actually are real, but combined into a metamorphosis of Frankenstein parts and places that come together in one character or place in time…
96.9 FM LP …that is low powered… and we are THE BEST LITTLE RADIO
STATION WEST OF THE
KMRD FM LP 96.9 is rock ‘n roll boogie-woogie to classical Symphony Orchestration! World Fusion to Beethoven, Boch to stones, locAL STARS of unknown LANDS...and I roll it altogether in to a mash-up of sounds laced with Original stories and interviews with creative individuals that take you on a few jumps of mind into a tag team of wrestl’n rock’n roll fusion spontaneity!
KMRD is your PUBLIC
POWERED COMMUNITY ARTS RADIO STATION in the brand new radio nation of 1,500
LP stations stretched all across the USA
No worry…blessings to you.
Worry…is throwing kerosene on a
IN OTHER WORDS
be here now or Go There Then…
or another option….
… love is a verb…action is required in living a
especially the unlovely.
It's a test.… endurance in remembering love is the name of the game…
…some people listening today… have never heard kmrd fm lp…and…
the Techno Sadhu
i am on every Wednesday from
Mountain standard Time…
WE HAVE BEEN Streaming FOR 38 weeks
96.9 FM LP …that is low powered… and
we are THE BEST LITTLE RADIO STATION WEST OF THE
…Give me a call here 505 473 9696 or facebook techno Sadhu a message…
Travel with me into
radio dreamland for the next two hours into what my spirit guide, David Ode called the
WE HAVE IMAGINATION,
KMRD along with community radio stations across the nation
for the first time in 50 years America we can talk freely and network to the world….hey we are on the air waves in your neighborhood for 79 weeks now…
kmrd 96.9 Fm on your dial can get around the world…
This is your
PUBLIC POWERED COMMUNITY ARTS RADIO STATION
Thought of the week
authors who i have loved
William Saroyan- Armenian
American, Saroyan wrote extensively about the Armenian immigrant life
He is recognized as "one of the most prominent literary figures of the mid-20th century."Stephen Fry describes Saroyan as "one of the most underrated writers of the [20th] century." Fry suggests that "he takes his place naturally alongside Hemingway, Steinbeckand Faulkner."
William Saroyan was born on
At the age of three, after his father's death, Saroyan, along with his brother
and sister, was placed in an orphanage in Oakland,
California. He later went on to describe his experience in the
orphanage in his writings. Five years later, the family reunited in
Saroyan decided to become a writer after his mother showed him some of his father's writings. A few of his early short articles were published in Overland Monthly. His first stories appeared in the 1930s. Among these was "The Broken Wheel", written under the name Sirak Goryan and published in the Armenian journal Hairenik in 1933. Many of Saroyan's stories were based on his childhood experiences among the Armenian-American fruit growers of the San Joaquin Valley or dealt with the rootlessness of the immigrant. The short story collection My Name is Aram (1940), an international bestseller, was about a young boy and the colorful characters of his immigrant family. It has been translated into many languages.
As a writer, Saroyan made his breakthrough in Story magazine with "The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze" (1934), the title taken from the nineteenth century song of the same title. The protagonist is a young, starving writer who tries to survive in a Depression-ridden society.
Through the air on the flying trapeze, his mind hummed. Amusing it was, astoundingly funny. A trapeze to God, or to nothing, a flying trapeze to some sort of eternity; he prayed objectively for strength to make the flight with grace.
This character resembles the penniless writer in Knut Hamsun's 1890 novel Hunger, but lacks the anger and nihilism of Hamsun's narrator. The story was republished in a collection whose royalties enabled Saroyan to travel to Europe and Armenia, where he learned to love the taste of Russian cigarettes, once observing, "you may tend to get cancer from the thing that makes you want to smoke so much, not from the smoking itself."
Saroyan served in the US
Army during World
War II. He was stationed in Astoria,
Queens, spending much of his time at the Lombardy Hotel in
Saroyan worked rapidly, hardly editing his text, and drinking and gambling away
much of his earnings. From 1958 on, he mainly resided in a
“I am an estranged man, said the liar: estranged from myself, from my family, my fellow man, my country, my world, my time, and my culture. I am not estranged from God, although I am a disbeliever in everything about God excepting God indefinable, inside all and careless of all.”
— from Here Comes There Goes You Know Who, 1961 His advice to a young writer was: "Try to learn to breathe deeply; really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell." Saroyan endeavored to create a prose style full of zest for life and seemingly impressionistic, that came to be called "Saroyanesque".
There is a statue of William Saroyan in Yerevan, Armenia
Saroyan had a correspondence with writer Sanora Babb that began in 1932 and ended in 1941, that grew into an unrequited love affair on Saroyan's part.
In 1943, Saroyan married actress Carol Marcus (1924–2003; also known as Carol Grace), with whom he had two children, Aram, who became an author and published a book about his father, and Lucy, who became an actress. By the late 1940s, Saroyan's drinking and gambling took a toll on his marriage, and in 1949, upon returning from an extended European trip, he filed for divorce. They were remarried briefly in 1951 and divorced again in 1952 with Marcus later claiming in her autobiography, Among the Porcupines: A Memoir, that Saroyan was abusive.
Carol subsequently married actor Walter Matthau.
Saroyan died in
KMRD FM LP is here to stay the course
We are in a radio nation of
1500 station stretched
Together this radio nation of LP stations are bigger than the hopelessness
of money greed and
politically/industrial/military controlled media… presented every day across the
"it's a big
KMRD.FM 96.9 ON YOUR DIAL IS
the best little radio station west of the Hudson
KMRD LP 96.9 FM is now in a cloud of
1,500 Community Radio stations making networks of knitted creativity…we are
braintrailing in cyber space
Radio has the
power to change.…and
community LP radio across our nation
offers the creative power to change
the world for the better… IT IS
a public powered community arts radio
zen cowboy short story
zazen PARABLE puzzle
You can Give a
The 100 Mile Ride of
Ok where do you start a mile but one with one step… at least that is the old
story, but it is funny as you get older how that one step can turn it into so
many steps. The second summer I was living with
red cloud out on the high desert
But the second summer we were there, the ZX ranch gave red Cloud a pickup truck with a stock rack in the back so he could transport a horse. At the end of that summer, one of the cowboy camps which was at the far end of the 3 ½ million acres the ZX ranch, one of the cowboys had accidentally left a mother cow and a calf. The ranch foreman came to Dominic camp and told red Cloud to drive there in his pickup truck and collect that cow somehow and bring her back about 40 miles to the west side of the ranch where the large gathering pens were. The problem was of course what to do with the truck and how to get it again.
Red cloud realized if he put me
on a horse, he could drive me to
I can’t tell you how darned tired I was, and often wondered how that horse
managed to keep in that high trot all day long. But that was 60 years ago, and
over the years ever time red
cloud and I would meet, that was
one of the stories that would always come up between us – chasing a wild loco
cow and calf cross the high desert of eastern
PUBLIC POWERED COMMUNITY ARTS RADIO STATION
This usaully where I say…
join me in radio theater today,
where your imagination can take you
to places unknown…
…expect a few bumps……… and turns…
it is the
THE RADIO THEATER
of THE absurd…
and I am the Techno Sadhu on the air waves…so…lets go surfing in the mind….that’s right….surfing your mind…
just remember…………..SUFFER BABY
Santiago McBoil, was bred in the jungles of
The Techno Sadhu RADIO THEATRE PRESENTS
A COSMIC PSYCHO DRAMA
The Harlequin Moon
TO RECAP FROM LAST WEEK
The mardi gras in
week became two. At the end of the second week, Axle’s musician friend arrived.
His name was Wolfgang. He was a fleshy German, but sexy. As the evening slid
along on glasses of wine and hashish,
He went out slamming the door. He walked into the kitchen and heard their hysterical giggles through the walls. Within minutes, sexual moaning sifted out of the yellow bedroom.
He sat down at the kitchen table and scribbled an angry letter, trying to say what he felt. He wrote three pages then stopped knowing he was a fool. Martina was beautiful, but she was driving him crazy.
not want to play the game any longer. He glared at the pathetic words then
crumpled the pages and threw them into the waste basket. The sounds continued in
the bedroom growing into a groaning rhythm. He found his small bag and stuffed
his few belongings into it. On another small piece of paper he wrote GOOD LUCK
YOU WHORE and laid it on the kitchen table. He opened the front door and went
out into the cold winter night air. In thirty minutes he was at the airport
booking a flight to
Eleven years later…The Restonica,
water of the
“I went back to Leila and she allowed the charade of our marriage. A kind of
screwed up confidence came back to me but my heart had turned to stone. I scared
Leila, but she wanted my attention despite knowing she should get me out of her
life. She swallowed her pride and decided to follow me one more time,”
“What a slut Martina was,” Neil said.
“No, Neil. She wasn’t any more of a slut than me. She just didn’t care.”
“Why did you come to
“I'll tell you the truth Neil. Because the women are sweet and the air smells
sweeter and the mountains are always high!”
He laughed and
said, “As they say in
was only vaguely in his thoughts but she had started his curiosity of the
island. The holiday in
gone through the usual British travel brochures, instantly rejecting
a warm June in
“You are English, aren't you?” he asked.
“Scottish!” Leila spit.
The man ignored Leila's rebuttal. He told them he had seen the lady reading an English book and that he was starved for good novels. Friendly small talk followed. He wondered if they might have any other books they would be willing to sell. He carried on, not waiting for a response, launching into the story of his life. He was Australian, his wife was French, and they were divorced. He was taking his two young daughters to a friend's summer house to the north end of the island, the long peninsula called Cap Corse. There was a tiny fishing village called Centuri. They were going to stay there a week. There was plenty of room. The man acted as if they had known each other for years. He invited them to come and stay with him.
“The girls will have a fantastic time,” he said.
At that moment the cars began to roll onto the ferry. The dockworkers cursed the tourists with obscenities as they waved their arms in frantic cowboy car-herding style.
The Australian jumped up and as he ran for his car he screamed over his shoulder, “See you on the boat mate!”
“A bit of a nutter if you ask me,” Leila said, “aye, away with the fairies!”
picturesque Mediterranean fishing village. Brightly painted fishing boats rock
in the clear waters of the small port. Only yards from the pier are an erratic
line of stone cottages with peeling plaster in the colored layers of calico
cats. The village crosses cultures between
friend of Burt, who owned the house, lived in
They stayed for a week with Burt and his daughters. It was an easy time at first. Burt was charmingly roguish. He acted the part of being a bachelor using his time and energy trying to impress the random semi-nude German female tourists on the beach.
was acting like an Olympic Sun-Tan-Champion lying in the phosphorous heat for
hours trying to capture Gold-for-Scotland. Fortunately there was enough Viking
pigment in her skin to win her a medal of tint. She would be able to prove to
her pale friends in
week passed peacefully, blissfully, then
Leila went with him to a nearby cafe where there was a pay phone. He was nervous. It was a big moment for him. She was indifferent. He closed the door of the glass telephone box. He was an astronaut preparing for blast-off. A few moments later he stepped out of the booth, jubilant. The committee had accepted the whole proposal. It was fantastic! The commission that could finally put him in Glossy Art Magazines had come. At last he was about to make it as an artist.
hunched her shoulders and said, “Oh it will probably be just another waste of
time. I hate
had not meant to hurt
telephone incident was not the first time the pot had boiled over. There had
been many occasions.
went back to the beach house, leaving the cafe as though it had never happened.
simmered while everyone removed themselves to their own private world. Only the
children played on in their uncomplicated way in the shade of the tiny box
rooms. Burt was wind-surfing in choppy seas. Leila was baking in the sun reading
Burt sensed the need to pull the safety valve. Being married once was more than
he could bear and he didn't have to put up with the theatrics of other people's
marriages. He had the heart of a bachelor.
“The Lady, can stay and watch the children,” Burt said casually.
“Just brilliant!” hissed Leila.
good idea.” said
Burt felt relieved.
Suddenly Leila said, “I'm coming too! I want to see the village! Why should I be stuck with the children?” Her chin was pointed like an icebreaker.
Burt swallowed hard and decided to keep his head down. “Marriage,” he muttered to himself.
“I'm not going to be dumped with children while you two go off and get drunk. Damn you men!” Leila screamed. She was determined to have her way for a change. Men Indeed! She would show the chauvinist pigs.
Soon they were all stacked in Burt's little French car like coals in the
furnace. The burn was audible. As they were leaving Centuri, Burt decided to
stop for cigarettes.
The mad dog was still in him as he barked, “All right, damn it! You so intent going on this trip, I tell you what! You go with Burt and the kids, an' I'll stay at the house!”
Leila snapped back, “Oh Santiago stop acting like such pig!”
she could say anything more
minutes passed and
“Son-of-a-…! I knew you'd come! Why can't you leave me alone? Just go back. You
wanted to go so frig’n bad -- well go!” Flames circled
“Stop being this way. Let me talk to you…” Leila pleaded.
“Go away. I wanna be on my own!” he screeched. He started to stand up and run away with his madness.
Leila grabbed him by the arms, her face pointing into his. She began to shake him. “Stop acting like a fool!”
Leila screamed, “You piece of crap!” she began to attack him with little flying fists with their untrained knuckles and thin fingers.
“You rotten no good…jerk! You've really hurt me this time! You rotten male chauvinist pig! You hit me! You hit me!”
Leila, her emotions out of control, her pride and flesh hurt, turned from his cold hate. With tears in her eyes she blindly ran towards the beach house.
“Ah Leila... I'm sorry sweetheart... I'm a monster... I didn't mean to do this to you. Darling I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please forgive me.”
Love is so close to hate when one is blinded by emotion…. The boundaries shift easily as patterns in the sand…. Hate and love swirl together and definitions are blown away…. Hot sirocco winds tear at man and woman.
left the company of Burt and his children the next day. Leila held him
a quiver of neat little arrows aimed at
remaining days of their holiday went without any further anguish, other than