As a means of retroactively introducing myself... I guess I'm a self confessed weirdo, which I enjoy being, partially because it's the only way I've found to make everyone else seem normal. Know what I mean? So as I said in a previous post, I've been radio-ing around the dial lo and behold 'pert near all of these 50 years, and so that's why I'm here. I like quality radio, especially off kilter stuff tuned into at night on short-wave or AM bands for example. Corporate radio, not so much. As a recently displaced small-farm vegetable farmer (soon to be again- I like dirt, what can I say?) I recently became a Mr. Mom, running the house needs while school and work happens for the rest of our home crew, so I have some long-neglected reading, even writing, time again. So this has been fun, this little outlet for radio community here.
If you're up for a couple of yuks, I wrote a short(ish) story of my being stranded in Needles, CA, home of the Knapp-reported "Needles Crash". It was hot, I was desperate, and I happened to have the Needles Coast episodes on my mp3 player so it was weird and funny. You'll find an extract below this link to the whole tamale- Thanks for the forum people!http://azgoji.com/pin.html
"...there are an abundance of abandoned parking lots in Needles. This town, once ensconced with the high class El Garces Hotel and Train Depot, situated on the Colorado River where the very hottest portions of Arizona and California meet, is the classic “Route 66 town gone dry”. It was the arrival of Interstate 40, more so than the advent of cheap air travel, that dried up Needles and dozens of cities and towns along the route like it. Basically, although often within visible distance from Main Street, the rapid pace of travel on the interstate made the idea of actually stopping at a traffic light or buying an ice cream cone in a place like Needles seem like a less than desirable option, rather than an absolute necessity as in the 66 heydays. What were once populated downtown business and civic centers are now partially restored and stripped down zones of utilitarian necessity. Lacking are almost any adornments such as family restaurants, an arcade, a theatre, or any of the other things (other than the token has-been motels, a couple of bars, liquor stores, and a single apparent street walker) that give a place the appearance of livability.
This tale would not be complete however, without the honorable mention of some of America’s most authentically bad cuisine being served right across the street from the train station. We went there because it was Sam’s birthday and we wanted to treat him to dinner, and it was the only place open because the other one was closed. Don’t worry, it’ll be easy to find if you want to look for it. But if you go, don’t expect ambiance or wi-fi service. Actually, don’t expect any service at all, as I speak perfect spanglish and I couldn’t make sense of anything said by, and eventually to, the two lost looking chavos at the counter. They acted as if they had just been dropped into their aprons and had no idea what to do next and fumbled with the paper roll on the cash drawer. (Cash only btw, fyi) It felt so weird that I started to suspect that we had walked in on the middle of a heist and that the real burrito dudes were back there wrapped up in duct tape in the kitchen somewhere. But as soon as the alleged food started to arrive in a perfectly dysfunctional manner, it was clear that these were undoubtedly, in fact, the two virtuosos behind Sam’s worst birthday meal ever in his 42 years. So absolutely and undisputedly inedible was this styrofoam cradled fare that we were emotionally and physically incapacitated by the horrid collective realization that this was certainly the most ill-presented and indigestible crap served to a paying customer in many months within a regional circumference of at least 500 miles. Possibly more. We were left so stunned by this dark and disturbing knowledge that the thought of returning the foul substance never crossed our heat-stroked minds."