BRIGID’S TALES of Days of Yore, when she was an intrepid sky jockey, footloose and fancy-free, roaming the empire of the air. She tells those tales so beautifully, skillfully inter-weaving an absorbing narrative with pellucid trains of philosophical thought. They incite a nostalgic mood every time, for me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time for nostalgia right now — more’s the pity.
Caught the last half of FM almost in passing tonight. 1978. I lived in that world then. I had just given up on — told myself I was merely shelving — my ambition to be a Big Name Author of Science Fiction, bailed on my hippie-dippy, half-assed furniture-making business, and jumped back into BIg-Time Rock-and-Roll. Funnily enough, at the time, I considered it Getting a Real Job.
The FM AOR station I hung out at was modeled a lot like Q-SKY — second floor studios, big glass doors at the top of the stairs. The on-air staff was probably cast by the same agent, albeit a bit scruffier than the Hollywood version. (And the PD (Program Director) was nowhere near as nice as Jeff Dugan. Didn’t have as much spine, either.)
And now, 31 years on … What? I dunno. Damned if I’m gonna feel sorry for myself for having spent a career — wasted it, maybe — in Mitchell’s words, “Stoking the star-maker machinery/Behind the popular song.”