Cinemorphosis

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  • Why You Prefer Your Radio to a Streaming Device

    Why You Prefer Your Radio to a Streaming Device

    880 and 660 with MM300

    If you’re like me, listening to classical music on your Tecsun PL-990 or PL-880 while reading a book is a real pleasure. You could listen to the same radio station on a computer or streaming device and it wouldn’t feel the same. 

    Your preference for listening to content on a high-performance radio rather than an Amazon streaming device likely stems from a combination of tactility, ritual, and authenticity.

    1. Tactility and Presence – Your radios are physical instruments with dials, knobs, and antennas, requiring interaction to fine-tune the signal. This act of engagement makes the listening experience feel more intentional, compared to simply clicking on a streaming app.
    2. Ritual and Skill – Tuning into a hard-to-get FM station on a high-performance radio, especially under varying atmospheric conditions, feels like an acquired skill. When reception is challenging, getting a clean signal feels like a small victory—something a streaming device doesn’t provide because it simply works or doesn’t.
    3. Authenticity and Directness – With FM radio, you’re receiving a direct broadcast, a real-time transmission from a tower to your receiver, unmediated by algorithms, compression, or internet connectivity. It feels like you’re catching a live signal out of the air, whereas streaming feels filtered through corporate infrastructure.
    4. Immediacy and Atmosphere – FM radio has static, subtle signal fluctuations, and environmental influence—all of which make the sound feel more alive compared to a clinically perfect digital stream. There’s a romance in the imperfection, much like the sweep of a mechanical watch’s second hand versus the precise ticking of a quartz.

    Connection to Your Watch Preferences:

    If you’re a radio person, you may also be a watch enthusiast, in which case  there’s a strong parallel between your love for high-performance radios and mechanical watches:

    • Mechanical watches and FM radios require physical mechanisms to operate—whether it’s gears and springs or ferrite antennas and signal processing. Quartz watches and streaming services, on the other hand, rely on microchips, batteries, and external data to function.
    • Both require skill and engagement—adjusting a radio for the best reception is akin to winding a watch, adjusting its timing, or understanding its movement. There’s an art to it.
    • Both provide a sense of tradition and independence—A mechanical watch keeps ticking without batteries, just as an FM radio pulls a signal out of the air without needing an internet connection. Both feel like they give you a direct, unfiltered experience rather than a pre-packaged digital one.

    Your attachment to radio over streaming—and mechanical over quartz—likely comes from a deeper appreciation for analogue, self-sufficient technology that requires a human touch. It’s about the process as much as the result.

  • A Nostalgic Ode to the Tecsun PL-660

    A Nostalgic Ode to the Tecsun PL-660

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    Against every shred of common sense I possess, I’ve joined several Tecsun radio forums—a decision akin to a sugar addict moving into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and sleeping under the chocolate river. It’s not just unwise; it’s a slow, delicious path to ruin. Within minutes, the forum zealots were chanting in unison: “You must own a PL-660 or PL-680! These are relics from the Pre-DSP Glory Era, back when Tecsun radios were free from the infernal chuffing, muting, and choppy tuning that plague DSP models. Think smooth analog cruising versus a hyper-caffeinated, turbocharged sports car.” Naturally, I bit the bait.

    The timing was serendipitous—or dangerous, depending on your perspective. During the height of my radio obsession, circa 2008, I owned a black Tecsun PL-660, and it was the crown jewel of my collection. But, as is the curse of all obsessions, I sold it during a fleeting moment of sanity, a decision that haunted me. When the January 2025 Los Angeles Fires reignited my passion for radios—because what better time to tinker with antennas than during a climate apocalypse?—the one radio I truly mourned was the PL-660.

    Enter eBay, the Pandora’s box of impulse purchases. I tracked down a silver PL-660 from a seller in Canada. At $68, it felt like a steal. Add $30 for shipping, tax, a Tecsun adapter from Anon-Co, and four AA rechargeable batteries, and suddenly my “steal” was a $140 splurge. But what’s money when you’re reuniting with a long-lost love?

    When the silver PL-660 arrived, it was nearly pristine, as if frozen in time. The box, manual, and accessories were all there, minus the adapter. I tested its AM and FM performance and, unsurprisingly, found it nearly indistinguishable from my PL-880—a radio I’d been coddling like a newborn in my bedroom. Sure, the 880’s speaker has a richer timbre, but the 660 holds its own. AM reception? The 660 might edge out the 880, but given the ever-shifting electrical interference in my house, testing it felt like comparing snowflakes in a blizzard. FM? Practically identical.

    And yet, here’s the kicker: I prefer the PL-660. Why? Nostalgia, for starters. It’s been 15 years since I last held one, and its reunion felt like meeting an old friend who hasn’t aged a day. But it’s more than sentimentality. The PL-660 exudes Pre-DSP mystique, wearing its analog pedigree like a hero’s badge of honor. Add to that the rumors swirling on the forums about the PL-680 taking its final lap before extinction, and I developed a textbook case of FOMO.

    Aesthetically, the 660 is a triumph. The PL-880, while a solid performer, looks like it was designed by two committees: one in charge of the radio chassis, the other tasked with slapping on an oversized speaker as an afterthought. In contrast, the PL-660 feels like it was forged from a single, unified block of silver (or black, if you’re lucky enough to find one). It’s monolithic, almost talismanic, with a heft that whispers, “This is not a toy.” Holding it feels like gripping a miniature obelisk of radio perfection.

    PL 880 & Uemura 1

    Naturally, I’m already scheming to buy a second PL-660 or perhaps its sibling, the PL-680, to keep as a “backup”—because if you love a radio enough, redundancy becomes an art form. And, because I can never leave well enough alone, I know I’ll spend the coming weeks obsessively swapping locations, putting the 660 in the bedroom, then the kitchen, then back again, until my brain short-circuits. Who needs stability when you can have perpetual indecision?

    In fact, I barely made it to my office to write this without feeling pangs of longing for the 660, which I’d left momentarily in the kitchen. Thirty minutes apart, and I was already waxing poetic about its brilliance, muttering, “Dude, you really love radios.” And it’s true—I do. Probably too much. But that’s the magic of radios: they’re not just devices; they’re companions, time machines, and portals to a world that feels more tactile and real than anything on your smartphone.

    Do I still love my PL-880? Of course. It’s a marvel of engineering, a steady presence in my life. But the PL-660? That’s my muse, my reminder of why I fell in love with radios in the first place. The 660 isn’t just a radio; it’s a reflection of who I am—an overthinking, signal-chasing, nostalgia-driven mess. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  • The Tecsun PL-880 Fulfills My Expectations

    The Tecsun PL-880 Fulfills My Expectations

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    I wanted a Tecsun in my bedroom—not some soulless streaming device, but a real radio, one with warmth, charm, and that inexplicable magic that only live broadcasts can offer. The idea was simple: a companion for afternoon naps and late-night reading sessions set to the soothing sounds of classical or jazz. After all, what better antidote to our algorithm-driven existence than the analog embrace of a good radio?

    Back in my radio-obsessed heyday around 2008, I foolishly sold my beloved Tecsun PL-660. Call it hubris, call it a lapse in judgment, but I’ve regretted it ever since. To atone, I snagged a used PL-660 for the kitchen and, for my bedroom sanctuary, opted for a Tecsun PL-880—a model lauded as a minor deity among radios.

    Now, let’s talk about my brief but painful dalliance with the PL-990. I ordered it from the reputable Anon-Co, expecting greatness, only to be greeted by an AM band as dead as a doorknob. Heartbreaking. Back it went, and in its place came the PL-880, slightly used but fully tested. And let me tell you, the speaker on the 880 is a revelation—warmer and more inviting than the 990’s. It’s like stepping into a cozy jazz club versus a sterile concert hall.

    The 880 arrived ready for action, with AM and FM defaults already set to North American standards—no fiddling required. On “DX” mode, the AM band delivers stunning clarity with zero floor noise or interference. It’s a joy to listen to, unlike 95% of the radios cluttering the market that barely rise above the status of glorified paperweights. FM performance is similarly impressive, though 89.3 gave me a little attitude when placed too close to the wall. A quick relocation to the bed or a spot away from the wall solved that, but the rest of the FM dial? Flawless. KCRW 89.9, in particular, comes through like it’s broadcasting from my nightstand, even while the battery charges.

    Speaking of AM, charging compromises its pristine reception, so I stick to battery power for those late-night AM sessions. Setting presets and navigating pages took a bit of patience—about 15 minutes of trial and error—but the interface is intuitive enough that even if you mess it up, direct entry is a breeze.

    In short, the PL-880 does exactly what I hoped it would: it fills my room with rich, crystal-clear sound, providing a listening experience that feels both luxurious and intimate. Sure, the PL-990 looks great and has fantastic build quality, but for my purposes, the 880 checks every box at a fraction of the cost. Why throw extra cash at a feature set I don’t need?

    Here’s the thing about being radio-obsessed: a radio isn’t just a gadget. It’s a companion, a quiet presence that connects you to a wider world while anchoring you in your own space. The PL-880 is just that—a welcome friend who’s already earned its place in my home.

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  • Sangean PR-D12 Is Solid on FM and AM in the Right Environment

    Sangean PR-D12 Is Solid on FM and AM in the Right Environment

    The following is from my now defunct Herculodge blog. I realized when I did radio testing again in 2025 that RFI (radio frequency interference) is a far greater challenge than it was in 2008. I need to play my radios on batteries, not AC adapters, and keep them away from walls, which is a shame because I really want the Sangean HDR-19, a wall adapter-only radio, which has gone up in price about $80 since even a couple of months ago.

    Since the Los Angeles Fires tore through Southern California in January 2025, I realized my household was embarrassingly underprepared for live news coverage. Streaming devices and smart speakers suddenly felt flimsy when the sky turns orange. I needed something sturdier, more reliable—like a good, old-fashioned radio.

    Enter Sangean, a brand I trusted a decade ago. I fondly remembered their radios delivering a warm, bass-heavy sound—pleasant, if not exactly hi-fi. My ancient PR-D4 still hums along in the garage, proof that Sangean builds workhorses. So, naturally, I picked up their new DSP-chip PR-D12, curious to see how it stacked up against its analog ancestor.

    The verdict? The D12 is brighter and more balanced than the D4, though the warmth I loved has cooled a bit. FM reception is a mixed bag. From Torrance, Pasadena’s 89.3 comes in strong with three bars and crystal clarity on the D12. On the D4? Same signal strength but with a thin veil of static, unless I awkwardly angle the antenna like I’m searching for alien life.

    But then things get weird. 91.5, my go-to classical station, sings smoothly on the D4 but sputters on the D12—two weak bars and static, no matter how I threaten the antenna.

    AM? Forget it. 640 AM is listenable but laced with floor noise on both radios. I twist and turn the radios to align the internal ferrite antennas like I’m cracking a safe, but the noise stays. Worse, AM talk radio voices sound like they’re broadcasting through a burlap sack. Long-term listening? Not a chance.

    What the D12 does have going for it is user-friendliness. Four preset pages with five slots each make navigating stations painless—perfect for my wife, who refuses to wrestle with complex manuals that read like an SAT prep book. She’s happy with 89.3 and 89.9 blasting clear and loud, so the D12 earns its spot in the kitchen.

    Still, I can’t shake the feeling I need something more commanding, like the soon-to-arrive Tecsun PL-990x. Maybe it’ll crack the code on AM audio bliss. Until then, the PR-D12 holds the line—solid, if not inspiring.

    Moderate recommendation.

    Update:

    I told my fellow radio enthusiast friend Gary about how I could not listen to the AM sound on the PR-D12 or my PR-D4, and he expressed the same sentiment. He said the only AM he can listen to from his vast radio collection is his now defunct C.Crane CC Radio-SW, which is a clone of the Redsun RP-2100. This made me sad because many years ago I enjoyed listening to AM on my Redsun RP-2100, but I fried it when I put the wrong AC adapter in it. Getting good AM sound out of a radio is hard these days. 

    Second Update:

    Three days after writing this review, I moved the PR-D12 to the garage where it sounds great on AM so I blame the kitchen, not the PR-D12. 

  • Qodosen DX-286: Purchased Twice, an Update

    Qodosen DX-286: Purchased Twice, an Update

    (originally posted on my Herculodge blog (on the defunct Typepad platform. I’m including an update on this post.)

    The Qodosen DX-286 arrived last Sunday, Day 5 of the Los Angeles Fires, and I wasted no time putting it under the microscope. I scrutinized its build quality, tested its FM and AM performance, and after some thoughtful listening, I decided it was going back.

    To be fair, music sounded pleasant enough on the small mono speaker—soft, inoffensive, like background noise in a coffee shop. But voices? Hollow, thin, and oddly distant. It quickly became clear that this radio would only be tolerable if tethered to a pair of headphones. As for the physical design, the kickstand and battery door felt flimsy, as if one wrong move would snap them clean off. They inspired about as much confidence as a paper umbrella in a hurricane.

    AM reception? Surprisingly solid. FM? Good but not amazing. Despite all the hype about the Qodosen’s so-called super-powerful radio chip, it was no better than the Degen/Kaito 1103 I had over a decade ago. Sure, it effortlessly locked onto 89.3 from Pasadena, but it fumbled with the weaker college station 88.9, struggling like a kid lifting his first dumbbell.

    That’s when it hit me: I was never going to fall in love with this pint-sized radio. It felt like driving a rattling Mazda Miata through a wind tunnel—fun in theory, but exhausting in practice. So, I packed up the Qodosen and sent it back. I don’t blame Qodosen. I blame my unrealistic expectations and my failure to realize I didn’t want a radio this small for my bedroom. 

    In its place? The Tecsun PL-990X. Seven and a half glorious inches of luxury radio, a true cruiser compared to the jittery compact Qodosen. Don’t get me wrong—the DX-286 is a decent radio. I just realized I wanted something bigger, smoother, and built for the long haul. 

    Update:

    I rebought the Qodosen about a month after writing my original Herculodge review. I realized the speaker is excellent, its AM is superior to my Tecsun radios, and that it’s a keeper. One issue: The kickstand broke, so I play it flat on its back.

  • How I Tricked Myself Into Reading Dostoevsky

    How I Tricked Myself Into Reading Dostoevsky

    The irony gnaws at me: I’ve been a college writing instructor for forty years, yet thanks to what I’ll politely call “Internet poisoning,” I can barely read anymore. In the ’80s, I devoured Nabokov the way bodybuilders slam protein shakes—voraciously, obsessively, as if prose itself were anabolic fuel. Now? Most books I start end up abandoned halfway through, like gym memberships in February.

    It’s not just the degraded Internet brain. There’s a physical component, too. Try cracking open a hard copy of Dostoevsky—his books are printed in fonts so microscopic they might as well be Morse code. But last night, I pulled a stunt: Crime and Punishment on my Kindle app, magnified in glorious large print across my 16-inch laptop. And I thought, “Hey, this isn’t half bad.” Almost breezy. Practically Dean Koontz with Russian orthodoxy.

    Sure, it’s lugubrious. A brooding, handsome nihilist—today we’d label him an Incel—is plotting a crime that amounts to little more than a cry for a hug. Why did Dostoevsky obsess over this guy? What subterranean morbidity haunted the man?

    So I play my mind a trick. I whisper: “This isn’t Russian gloom. This is metaphysical pop fiction. Dean Koontz with samovars.” That little spoonful of honey lets me swallow the medicine.

    Maybe next I’ll tackle Demons. Then The Brothers Karamazov. Then The Idiot. And who knows? I may one day become a Dostoevsky scholar—simply by convincing myself I’m binging airport thrillers.

  • Safari Hats and Leviathan Eyes

    Safari Hats and Leviathan Eyes

    Last night I dreamed my wife and I were walking along a South African beach at twilight, the sky streaked with salmon and violet, the horizon shimmering as if we had stumbled into a myth rather than a place on any map.

    The coastline was no ordinary shore. Instead, a massive conveyor belt rattled along the sand, carrying an endless parade of women from every corner of the globe. Each time one of them reached my wife, the belt shuddered to a halt. The woman—frumpy, froggy, apologetic, swaddled in baggy safari khakis and hats that looked like they had been flattened in a suitcase—would plead for my wife’s opinion on her outfit.

    With gentle authority, my wife made her adjustments—a tuck here, a trim there—and declared the woman presentable. At once, the supplicant would bow effusively, glowing with gratitude, before the conveyor belt whisked her off into the twilight. This was my wife’s destiny, her sacred vocation, and she bore it with effortless grace.

    Behind us, the ocean brooded. From the waves, leviathan shapes drifted in the gloom, colossal witnesses to this human pageant of absurdity. Their eyes glowed with the cold contempt of ancient gods, as if to say: This is what civilization amounts to—hats and hemlines, endlessly corrected.

    The dream inspired me to write a song this morning, “The Sadness of Summer Fashion”:

  • When Music Turns Against You

    When Music Turns Against You

    Nearly twenty years later, I’m still haunted by a radio interview with a musician whose name I’ve long forgotten. She wasn’t a star, but she’d carved out modest success as a songwriter and performer—until she stopped cold. Her lifelong depression had once been soothed by music, but eventually the very act of making it turned corrosive. What had been balm became poison. The emotions beneath her songs were too raw, too jagged to face. She not only put down her guitar; she banished all music from her life. While others found sweetness and solace in melody, she heard only torment. For her, silence was the only refuge. She spoke as someone exiled, barren, cut off from a source of joy she could never imagine welcoming back.

    Most music, for me, carries happy and nostalgic weight. When a song pulls me back to a moment when I was unbearably lonely or making a fool of myself, I may wince—but I don’t hold the song responsible. Instead, I value it as a powerful marker, a bookmark that divides my life into bold chapters, each melody reminding me exactly where one ended and the next began.

  • Beyond Believers and Unbelievers

    Beyond Believers and Unbelievers

    In Reflections on the Existence of God, Richard E. Simmons insists on a binary vision of reality: you either believe in God through the Judeo-Christian tradition, or you reject God altogether, joining the ranks of atheists in the mold of Freud or the New Atheists. A committed Christian, Simmons even agrees with atheist Sam Harris that “atheism and Christianity compete on the same playing field.” In this framing, the contest is nothing less than a duel for human souls, with consequences both temporal and eternal. As Simmons puts it: “The question of God’s existence, in my opinion, is the most significant issue in all of life.”

    Drawing on Armand Nicholi’s The Question of God, which stages a philosophical match between C.S. Lewis and Sigmund Freud, Simmons argues that if Lewis is wrong, then Freud must be right: the universe is empty, silent, and loveless. In that case, we are forced to embrace this “harsh reality,” stripping away “false hopes and unrealistic expectations.”

    But Simmons’ stark either/or feels more like caricature than clarity. Not all who reject Christianity are Freud’s disciples. Many non-Christian seekers believe in benevolent spiritual forces larger than themselves. Phil Stutz in The Tools and Steven Pressfield in The War of Art both describe transcendent realities—love, creativity, solace—that hardly resemble Freud’s existential bleakness.

    Even within Christianity, belief is hardly monolithic. The theology of a Calvinist and that of a Universalist are galaxies apart. To affirm substitutionary atonement is to worship a very different God than the believer who rejects it. The label “believer” is too blunt to capture these divergences. Hyam Maccoby, the Jewish scholar who wrote The Mythmaker: Paul and the Invention of Christianity, is a believer in God, yet he spends his book dismantling Paul, another believer. Sometimes believers are harsher with each other than with atheists.

    Framing the world as a cosmic battlefield of believers versus unbelievers oversimplifies both camps. Reality is more complex, and spiritual life cannot be reduced to an either/or ultimatum.

  • Maybe There’s a Friendship Renaissance Waiting for Retirees, Or Maybe There Isn’t

    Maybe There’s a Friendship Renaissance Waiting for Retirees, Or Maybe There Isn’t

    In a recent conversation with Mike Moynihan on The Moynihan Report, media analyst Doug Rushkoff described social media life as a kind of self-inflicted madness: we willingly lobotomize ourselves into shrill binaries, flattening nuance until the “other side” is little more than a demon enemy. His words echoed Jaron Lanier’s decade-long dirge about how the online hive mind debases us into cheap caricatures.

    After fifteen years inside this funhouse, I can vouch for Rushkoff. Chasing likes and subs is a direct pipeline to despair. The algorithm isn’t designed for truth or connection — it’s a slot machine that spits out dopamine crumbs in exchange for outrage and hype. And yet, podcasters like Rushkoff and Moynihan point to a counterargument: in the right hands, social media can host intelligent conversations. But it’s a fragile victory, like surviving on a vegan diet — possible, but you’ll work twice as hard and swallow twice as much chalk.

    Socially, though, the medium is barren. Scroll long enough and the promise of “connection” curdles into loneliness.

    This hits me harder as retirement creeps closer — twenty-one months and counting. I’ve spent forty years teaching face-to-face, and I’ll miss it desperately. This semester I have student-athletes: sharp, disciplined, driven, engaging. Those classroom connections have been the marrow of my career, and they won’t be replicated by a Facebook feed.

    I’ll still have a family. I’ll still have two best friends in Torrance. But unlike my wife, who maintains a weekly social circuit of concerts, trips, dinners, and parties, my friendships are skeletal. Months-long “friendship fasts” punctuated by rare meetups. Husbands, as the cliché goes, lean too heavily on their wives for connection — a weight she may already feel pressed under. An isolated husband becomes a burden.

    You reap what you sow. Neglect friendships for decades, and you retire into isolation, wondering if you can still course-correct. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe habit calcifies into solitude.

    Or maybe not. Maybe there’s a friendship renaissance waiting out there: gray-haired amateur philosophers huddled at gritty diners, pickleball warriors at dawn, retirees solving the world over coffee. Maybe the beach yoga crowd will embrace me.

    Or maybe that’s just wishcasting. We’ll see.