I've got technologies. They're multiplying?

Admittedly, for the past six years, this fair broadcast has been decidedly regressive. However, as someone once said, the times they are a-changin'. And what peculiar synchronicity. Just as the cassette returns to prominence, myriad youths don neon, and the clatter of countless lo-fi bands captures the collective imagination of the twenty-something consumer demographic, I decide to cast my once cherished antiquarian ideals aside and dive headfirst into the blogosphere. Oh well. Here's hoping the interwebs are not the fad they once appeared to be. If this all goes horribly wrong I'm blaming you Al Gore.

This blog is intended to be something of a companion resource for the six or seven friends, relatives and/or weary interstate travelers (those poor souls unfortunate enough to find themselves near I-81's Exits 188, 191 and 195 between the hours of 5:00 and 8:00 p.m. on Tuesday evenings) who may or may not listen to my weekly radio show, One Man in a Small Room, on WLUR 91. 5 FM. Weekly playlists will be posted. Themes discussed. Obscure bands feted (a fate that is destined to all but guarantee their continued obscurity).

And so it begins. Stay tuned. Keep reading. Comments are appreciated. As a final note, I leave you with these words from a more prescient than he ever knew, James Thurber:

"Benvenuto Cellini said that a man should be at least forty years old before he undertakes so fine an enterprise as that of setting down the story of his life. He said also that an autobiographer should have accomplished something of excellence. Nowadays nobody who has a typewriter pays any attention to the old master's quaint rules. I myself have accomplished nothing of excellence except a remarkable and, to some of my friends, unaccountable expertness in hitting empty ginger ale bottles with small rocks at a distance of thirty paces. Moreover, I am not yet forty years old. But the grim date moves toward me apace; my legs are beginning to go, things blur before my eyes, and the faces of the rose-lipped maids I knew in my twenties are misty as dreams. At forty my faculties may have closed up like flowers at evening, leaving me unable to write my memoirs with a fitting and discreet inaccuracy or, having written them, unable to carry them to the publisher's. A writer verging into the middle years lives in dread of losing his way to the publishing house and wandering down to the Bowery or the Battery, there to disappear like Ambrose Bierce."

One day a server outside Des Moines will crash, and there will remain only whispers of a once proud people and their seemingly insatiable desire to opine, reflect and pontificate. God save our increasingly evanescent culture.