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       THE OLD GUY SURVIVES

A Thought for Today

Energy is everything. Without it, talent hasn't got a prayer.

 

A very happy and blessed Easter to all our readers.

Rod is taking it easy today following a bout of food poisoning and I know you'll all join me in wishing him a speedy recovery. I'm just thankful he got it out the way this weekend. At least he can enjoy next weeks celebrations in an appropriate manner.

As I mentioned last week yesterday saw my first foray into the world of South African broadcasting and I thought a report back would be in order today.

I doubt any of you will fully appreciate just how nervous I was as I set out for the studio. Although the radio station is a pretty small one in terms of audience (as a local community station it numbers about 150,000 listeners) it is staffed by some of the biggest names in local broadcasting. Readers with a South African connection will immediately recognize some of the names - Peter Lotis, Bob Courtney, Gordon Mulholland, Dennis Smith, Lance James to name a few. All at one time formed part of the now defunct Springbok Radio, in it's heyday the largest commercial station in the country.

Collectively these guys lay claim to hundreds of years of broadcasting experience and so it was with no small degree of trepidation that I arrived in their midst, clutching my LP's in hot, sweaty hands, enquiring of them rather timidly if I had the right place and were they really sure they wanted me to do this?

I needn't have worried. One thing about professionals in any field - they have a knack of putting newcomers at ease and making them feel quite at home. Gordon Mulholland, lovely man that he is, provided the most valuable piece of advice - "you're only talking to a microphone, a piece of metal, you know". This somehow made enormous sense to the novice and on I went with the show.

I wasn't expecting to receive any calls from listeners and didn't - until I got into the McKuen/Yarbrough segment of the show. Boy, I should have known! Sally called to tell me that she and her daughter were in the front row at every concert Rod performed in this country, to ask where she could get hold of his CD's and did I want a copy of  "The Black Eagle" as she was sure I'd never come across it. Marion was hearing some of Rod's "stuff" for the first time and loved it and Pauline earned my everlasting gratitude by calling to say not only was she crazy about both Rod and Glenn's work but that she hadn't heard a better musical program in years. And on it went.

Bottom line - I had a ball and would do it all again if asked. Your letters of good wishes helped a lot - thanks to those of you who took the time to write. Special thanks to Ruth Moca, a South African reader who wanted to listen in. I was so apprehensive about the whole venture I wouldn't even tell her the name of the radio station!  Next time, Ruth, if there is one. 

Above all, thanks to Rod, Glenn, Jacques, Charles, Gilbert and others.  When you have such great material to work with, this radio thing really is a doddle!

                                     - Ken, Johannesburg, April 23

notable birthdays                               EASTER SUNDAY
Valerie Bertinelli
o David Birney o Shirley Temple Black o Blair Brown o James Buchanan o Judy Davis o Sandra Dee o Joyce DeWitt o Halston o Jan Hooks o Melina Kanakaredes o Lee Majors o Vladimir Nabokov o Ronald Neame o Sergei Prokofiev o William Shakespeare o Don Spence o Tom Spence o Herve Villechaize o Bud Wilkinson
Rod's random thoughts If it's worth doing, it's usually worth doing right away.

Those in fear of being overthrown are easily conquered.

Work ought to be fun for everybody, if it's not someone isn't working hard enough at it.

SLEEP AFTER THE
BRIGHTON LANES

Saturday night
ducking, dodging
through the Brighton lanes,
pursuing and pursued.

When nothing comes
of conquest or conquistador
the quietude of that same
                          upstairs room
is like an iron mantle
clamping down and making
every organ useless.

And still sleep doesn't come.

It's then you know
that speech is nothing.
        Not because
there is no one to speak to
but because yet one more time
you were not chosen
                        by the chosen
and you did not chose
                        to speak
even though the chosen
might have waited
thinking your words
should come first.

Why do we study.
Why do we become
               learned men ?
Why do we cheat and force
and push our way
through what we think
                are barricades,
when all the while
it is those same
blind barricades
that we're erecting ?

When it comes to need
intellect could not be
        more useless
and there's not knowledge
near enough or deep enough
          to satisfy or substitute.

With imagination so well worn
that a single sigh is every bit
as powerful as sublimation.
                  Need can drive you
down the darkest alley
and leave you there,
beached and bloody,
still waiting for
a new encounter.

Need,
and need not gratified
has helped me understand
why the suicide can do it
and how the alcoholic can
transcend and thereby end
                             his limit.

Monday morning,
out of sleep,
too little sleep
that came too late.
The car is waiting.
On to Bournemouth.

Another night of faces
not seen completely
        and not seen again.
There are eyes and forms
that stand out even in the dark.
They become then individuals
                not audience.
They never know
and I can't tell them.

What if I put the question
to some of those who linger
when the show shuts down
and the answer came back, no?

One more bed
in one more room
now sleep hurries in,
even though the senses
still stay poised for the small
                  or great adventure.
Tomorrow there's the London train,
a month to go
and then Los Angeles again..  

                                - from "And To Each Season, " 1972

© 1972, 1987, 2000 by Stanyan Music Group & Rod McKuen. All Rights Reserved
Birthday research by Wade Alexander o Poetry from the collection of Jay Hagan
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