I shove my fist in the air in defiance of popular radio. Fuck popular. I jam my rapier through the chest of popular radio and gobble it up like the temporarily triumphant monster from stories Mom used to read me. (A monster doesn�t �eat him,� it �gobbles him up,� and he bounces around in its belly like Bj�rk in the bear�s belly in the �Human Behavior� video). Anyway� popular radio. I spend most of my time on the three and a half hour drive from Boston to New Jersey with my hand on the dial, turning click by click, listening for something interesting. I barely listen to music on the radio at all and steer straight for the talk stations and usually break only for NPR. I�m not a snob, it�s just that I find the voices of �All Things Considered� considerably more tolerable than the fake orgasms of insecure girls between faux sociopolitical quips by Opie and Anthony, and even that description is making them sound more interesting and valid than they are. But yes they are popular. It reminds me of my Dad�s girlfriend and my �discussion,� if you could call it that, about Britney Spears, where all she could keep saying to me was, �But Jenneeefer, everyone LOVE her. She is POPular.� To many, women can do no better than achieving fame and money by successfully manipulating men with sex. Girl, we couldn�t get much higher. Not that Britney does that. Not that she doesn�t. I�m just saying. Why I bring Bada Bing up I don�t know. The inability to communicate meaningfully with this woman is fundamental in the way that I can�t communicate meaningfully with people who unabashedly love Riverdance. That�s not to say I won�t bend. Brent has helped me appreciate Neil Diamond. And I never thought I would. I�ve mellowed with age. And yet I�m more full of piss and vinegar than ever. I�d better go use the toilet and make a salad.

There was a time when the radio, in my parents� basement, made me feel connected to the world. I have such great memories of dancing idiotically to �Sussudio� and could tell any Genesis song from any Phil Collins song because the albums were recorded and released every other year. At least I think that�s how it was. Late night radio was a comfort and bridge to other worlds too�sleeping over my sister Karen�s house and listening to the Fairleigh Dickinson radio station at 3 in the morning, the soft peach light from the receiver next to the bed illuminating the dead bug somehow caught between the Plexiglas and the dial needle. It was mostly punk bands that I could only dream of someday being a part of. I ought to be allowed to sleep home alone first.

Driving to New Jersey last summer I found �Hearing Voices� on the radio, somewhere in Connecticut, and fell instantly in love. I clicked the dial to hear the beginning of the first track off of the newest Blonde Redhead album, dotted with handclaps (I�m smitten) and clicked no further. To my delight I had stumbled upon an aural documentary about the Underground Lunchroom at the Carlsbad Caverns. I listened, entranced for the next hour or so, as long as my radio would stay on the station without shifting into another. Now this is what I�d been looking for. Definitely listen if you get a chance. It describes a place that was renovated in the 70�s and shows� the condiment kiosks being of the same sandy rocky complexion as the drive through banks of our childhood.

I know it�s way too much to ask to have popular radio be good. I mean, even when it is good it�s fleeting. And that only means there�s a good song here and there sandwiched between several formulaically created petri dish songs. It has the feeling of a band shaking its moneymaker in order to get signed to a major label instead of just playing actually good music. You can taste it in the air at these showcases, as opposed to shows� the case is what traps bands, sticking themselves in some box that the label wants, and it�s all about money. Such a pimp-ho extravaganza. Make that guitar bend a little bendier, a little more �Wonderful Tonight.� �Let me see your legs.� �Give me a free sample.� �You�re going to have to bend over if you wanna be a star.� �Okay, Mr. Geffen.� That kind of thing. Wow. That sounds so 42nd Street. I would much rather be stuck playing smaller venues for friends and fans than be caught in that perpetual limbo of vague major label interest, always looking for a new way to get in there and make my one little flash in the overused pan. BORE.

Ok, I had to get off that paragraph. I suppose I would just like to be affected as strongly by anything as I was when I was a kid. That�s what most people want, probably. My taste buds are burned out, I think, like after a bowl of spicy salsa. But we expect the spice in our older age. Maybe it�s the surprise of the zing as a child that makes it so memorable. Oh well. When I find something else that gets me I�ll let you know. Something new. Until then I am going to return to some old things. I�m going to listen to records and put my naked 45�s in plastic sleeves just so that I can smell the dusty vinyl goodness. There�s something so satisfying about the delectable lo-fi of the hi-fi.

Word of the Day for Wednesday April 24, 2002:

ebullient ih-BUL-yuhnt, adjective:

1. Overflowing with enthusiasm or excitement; high-spirited.

2. Boiling up or over.

The glasses he wore for astigmatism gave him a deceptively clerkish appearance, for he had an ebullient, gregarious personality, a hot temper, and an outsized imagination.

--Jon Lee Anderson, [1]Che Guevara: A Revolutionary Life

He was no longer an ebullient, energetic adolescent.

--Linda Simon, Genuine Reality: A Life of William James

Sometimes he would come back from the Drenchery Club holding on to the walls till he got to my office, where he'd be jolly and ebullient. At other times, he'd return morose.

--Harriet Wasserman, Handsome Is: Adventures with Saul Bellow

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Ebullient comes from Latin ebullire, "to bubble up," from e-, "out of, from" + bullire, "to bubble, to boil."