Tag: music

Ozempification: A Cautionary Tale

The 2025 Los Angeles wildfires, blazing with apocalyptic fury, prompted me to do something I hadn’t done in years: dust off one of my radios and tune into live local news. The live broadcast brought with it not just updates but an epiphany. Two things, in fact. First, I realized that deep down, I despise my streaming devices—their algorithm-driven content is like an endless conveyor belt of lukewarm leftovers, a numbing backdrop of music and chatter that feels canned, impersonal, and incurably distant. Worst of all, these devices have pushed me into a solipsistic bubble, a navel-gazing universe where I am the sole inhabitant. Streaming has turned my listening into an isolating, insidious form of solitary confinement, and I haven’t even noticed.

When I flipped on the radio in my kitchen, the warmth of its live immediacy hit me like a long-lost friend. My heart ached as memories of radio’s golden touch from my youth came flooding back. As a nine-year-old, after watching Diahann Carroll in Julia and Sally Field in The Flying Nun, I’d crawl into bed, armed with my trusty transistor radio and earbuds, ready for the night to truly begin. Tuned to KFRC 610 AM, I’d be transported into the shimmering world of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Hot Fun in the Summertime,” Tommy James and the Shondells’ “Crystal Blue Persuasion,” and The Friends of Distinction’s “Grazing in the Grass.” The knowledge that thousands of others in my community were swaying to the same beats made the experience electric, communal, alive—so unlike the deadening isolation of my curated streaming playlists.

The fires didn’t just torch the city—they laid bare the fault lines in my craving for connection. Nostalgia hit like a sucker punch, sending me down an online rabbit hole in search of a high-performance radio, convinced it could resurrect the magic of my youth. Deep down, a sardonic voice heckled me: was this really about better reception, or just another pitiful attempt by a sixty-something man trying to outrun mortality? Did I honestly believe a turbo-charged radio could beam me back to those transistor nights and warm kitchen conversations, or was I just tuning into the static of my own existential despair?

Streaming had wrecked my relationship with music, plain and simple. The irony wasn’t lost on me either. While I warned my college students not to let ChatGPT lull them into embracing mediocre writing, I had let technology seduce me into a lazy, soulless listening experience. Hypocrisy alert: I had become the very cautionary tale I preached against.

Enter what I now call “Ozempification,” inspired by that magical little injection, Ozempic, which promises a sleek body with zero effort. It’s the tech-age fantasy in full force: the belief that convenience can deliver instant gratification without any downside. Spoiler alert—it doesn’t. The price of that fantasy is steep: convenience kills effort, and with it, the things that actually make life rich and rewarding. Bit by bit, it hollows you out like a bad remix, leaving you a hollow shell of passive consumption.

Over time, you become an emotionally numb, passive tech junkie—a glorified NPC on autopilot, scrolling endlessly through algorithms that decide your taste for you. The worst part? You stop noticing. The soundtrack to your life is reduced to background noise, and you can’t even remember when you lost control of the plot.

But not all Ozempification is a one-way ticket to spiritual bankruptcy. Sometimes, it’s a lifeline. GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic can literally save lives, keeping people with severe diabetes from joining the ranks of organ donors earlier than planned. Meanwhile, overworked doctors are using AI to diagnose patients with an accuracy that beats the pre-AI days of frantic guesswork and “Let’s Google that rash.” That’s Necessary Ozempification—the kind that keeps you alive or at least keeps your doctor from prescribing antidepressants instead of antibiotics.

The true menace isn’t just technology—it’s Mindless Ozempification, where convenience turns into a full-blown addiction. Everything—your work, your relationships, even your emotional life—gets flattened into a cheap, prepackaged blur of instant gratification and hollow accomplishment. Suddenly, you’re just a background NPC in your own narrative, endlessly scrolling for a dopamine hit like a lab rat stuck in a particularly bleak Skinner box experiment.

As the fires in L.A. fizzled out, I had a few weeks to prep my writing courses. While crafting my syllabus and essay prompts, Mindless Ozempification loomed large in my mind. Why? Because I was facing the greatest challenge of my teaching career: staying relevant when my students had a genie—otherwise known as ChatGPT—at their beck and call, ready to crank out essays faster than you can nuke a frozen burrito.

After four years of wrestling with AI-assisted essays and thirty-five years in the classroom, I’ve learned something unflattering about human nature—especially my own. We are exquisitely vulnerable to comfort, shortcuts, and the soft seduction of the path of least resistance. Given enough convenience, we don’t just cut corners; we slowly anesthetize ourselves. That quiet slide—where effort feels offensive and difficulty feels unnecessary—is the endgame of Ozempification: not improvement, but a gentle, smiling drift toward spiritual atrophy.

December 18, 2025
Flashback to Tony Banks’ “Afterglow”

The podcast conversation between Andrew Sullivan and George Packer left me with a kind of Boomer melancholia: the sense that the world is shifting beneath our feet while we stand rooted in place. The young don’t believe in our institutions, our democracy, or our economic promises. We no longer share a common reality; instead, we inhabit digital bunkers curated by conspiracy brokers who can elevate grifters to national power. Boomers—myself included—feel sidelined, stunned, and a little ghostlike as a new world rises and shrugs us off. I carry that heaviness alongside the throb of my torn rotator cuff, which still jerks me awake at two in the morning. My shoulder and my generation feel similarly compromised: stiff, unreliable, and unable to perform the way they once did.

These thoughts ambushed me this afternoon as I walked into my bedroom to grab my things before picking up my daughters from high school. Out of nowhere, a song from my teens surfaced—Genesis’s “Afterglow,” written by Tony Banks. It appears on A Trick of the Tail, but the definitive version is Phil Collins’s live performance on Seconds Out, where the ache in his voice makes the song feel like a confession. The narrator wakes from a spiritual coma to realize the world he trusted is gone and he’s broken along with it. In that ruin, he yearns to surrender himself to something higher—love, purpose, the purifying clarity of devotion. It reminded me of Nick Cave’s conversation on Josh Szeps’s Uncomfortable Conversations, where Cave describes his own devotional temperament and his hunger for transformation. “Afterglow” feels like the soundtrack to that kind of awakening.

But not everyone hungers for that kind of epiphany. I’m not sure my heroes Larry David, George Carlin, or Fran Lebowitz would ever have an Afterglow Moment, and I don’t think they should be judged for it. Some people thrive without chasing transcendence. I know that I, like Nick Cave, feel broken in a broken world and remain open to whatever cleansing revelation might come. But I don’t mistake that for a universal template. If I ever had an Afterglow Moment and found myself at dinner with Fran Lebowitz, I’d keep the whole thing to myself. There’s no reason to evangelize the converted—or the happily unconcerned.

December 8, 2025
The World’s Unwanted Alarm Clock

No one warned me, but I should have seen it coming: creeping toward your mid-sixties is less a rite of passage than a crisis of competence. Or, to be precise, it’s a progressive misalignment with the modern world. You drop references to Danish Go-Rounds, Screaming Yellow Zonkers, Tooter Turtle, and All in the Family and watch blank faces stare back at you. You still assume that appliances are built with the sturdiness of yesteryear, only to find that today’s models disintegrate if you breathe on them sideways. This misalignment breeds a special kind of incompetence—egregious, preventable, humiliating.

You can swallow vats of triglyceride omega-3 fish oil, but the short-term memory still slips away without mercy. You forget where you parked your socks (on the couch), that you meant to watch the final episode of that crime docuseries on Netflix, that a Costco-sized case of 12-gallon trash bags lurks in the garage, or that you already ground tomorrow’s coffee beans. The indignities pile up like unopened mail.

These lapses, coupled with your fossilized references to extinct foods and beloved TV shows, render you a creature out of phase with the universe—an alien with wrinkles, blinking in confusion, flashing your unearned senior discount at the box office like it’s a badge of relevance.

You can flex all you want against this verdict. Wolf down 200 grams of protein daily, clang kettlebells in the garage, and polish yourself into the semblance of a beaming bodybuilder who could pass for forty-four instead of sixty-four. But that delusion ends the second you get behind the wheel at night. Your depth perception is a cruel joke. The glare of headlights and streetlamps slices into your worn irises like laser beams, reminding you that biology—not discipline—is running the show.

Like it or not, you’re aging in real time, a public spectacle of decline, the unwelcome prophet of mortality who shatters the younger generation’s illusion that time is indefinite. To them, you are as pleasant a presence as a neighbor’s dog barking at a squirrel at six a.m.—loud, unnecessary, and impossible to ignore.

Congratulations–you’ve become the world’s unwanted alarm clock.

September 28, 2025
How The Monkees Taught Me That the Intellectual Can Beat the Bodybuilder and Inspired a Song

October 16, 1967, was a victory for the writers of cynicism. It was the day I learned the universe doesn’t give a damn. This was the day the veil was lifted. I was five, just shy of my sixth birthday, watching The Monkees, blissfully unaware that my entire worldview was about to be wrecked. The episode? “I Was a 99-lb. Weakling.” The plot? Micky Dolenz, the Monkee I admired most, gets metaphorically pancaked by Bulk, a human monument of muscle played by Mr. Universe Dave Draper. Bulk was no ordinary gym rat; he was a colossus in Speedos, the prototype Schwarzenegger. Worse, he stole Brenda, the beach goddess, right out from under Micky’s nose.

Micky, desperate to win her back, did what any of us would: he signed up for Weaklings Anonymous. Their solution? Hoisting weights the size of small cars and downing fermented goat milk curd—an elixir I can only assume tasted like liquid despair. He even sold his drum set, jeopardizing the band’s future, all to build enough brawn to challenge Bulk.

And for what? Brenda, fickle as fate, had a sudden epiphany—muscles were passé. She ditched Bulk for a scrawny intellectual buried in Remembrance of Things Past. Apparently, Proust’s multivolume exploration of memory and ennui was hotter than biceps.

There, in front of my Zenith TV, I watched Micky’s heart crumple, and with it, mine. The moral of the story was clear and soul-crushing: hard work guarantees nothing. You could sacrifice, sweat, and sip goat curd until you resembled a Greco-Roman statue, only to find the universe had other plans—plans that favored nerds with library cards.

The Monkees changed everything. The show taught me the brutal truth of irony: things don’t go the way as planned. I didn’t have the word for irony as a five-year-old, but I could feel it sending an existential chill through my bones.

As the decades passed, I finally processed that childhood memory into a piano song I wrote, titled “The Heartbreak of Micky Dolenz”:

September 25, 2025
How Soon Is Theft?

In 1990, I was in my late twenties, a newly minted college writing instructor drifting through life with the ethereal soundtrack of The Smiths, the Cocteau Twins, The Trash Can Sinatras, and The Sundays rattling in my head. One afternoon on Hollywood Boulevard with my girlfriend, I did what any self-respecting young melancholic would do: I bought Smiths T-shirts and posters like sacred relics. The crown jewel was my “How Soon Is Now” poster, a portrait of an angst-drenched youth in a gray cable-knit sweater, gazing downward as if staring into the abyss. I taped it proudly to my office door, a shrine to my tribe. Within a week, it was gone—stolen.

The theft still smolders decades later. It wasn’t just the insult of having something ripped from my door; it was the betrayal of the faith I placed in The Smiths’ congregation. Their music was heartbreak bottled into beauty, sadness transmuted into community. To love The Smiths, I believed, was to be incapable of theft. Fans were supposed to be fellow pilgrims on the same road to melancholy salvation. You don’t rob your brother of his relics. You light a candle with him and hum “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.”

But there it was: my poster ripped away not by a barbarian from the outside, but by a fellow initiate. The irony was unbearable. If The Smiths could not protect us from base impulses, if their music could not ennoble even their most ardent listeners, then what was art worth? Wasn’t it supposed to make us better, kinder, less brutish? The theft of that poster wasn’t just petty larceny. It was the murder of a principle.

To this day, I remember the empty rectangle of tape marks left on my office door, staring back at me like a smirk from the abyss. The thief didn’t just pocket a poster; they handed me a lesson in nihilism, gift-wrapped in Morrissey’s sorrowful croon. And I’ve been suspicious of beauty ever since, knowing it can inspire devotion and betrayal in the same breath.

September 13, 2025
The Road to Studio City Is Paved with Lane Closures

Yesterday I braved my cousin Pete’s 75th birthday blowout in Studio City, dragging my wife and one of my twin daughters along for the ordeal. Like a fool, I skipped the Google Maps pre-check. The punishment: three lane closures on the 405. What should have been a breezy forty-minute jaunt became a 95-minute death march in a metal box. I joked that Pete should’ve hired a therapist specifically for the traumatized survivors of Southern California traffic—“Welcome, let’s unpack your freeway PTSD before the cake is served.”

The party itself was bigger than I bargained for—150 guests orbiting around a swimming pool, lubricated by a taco bar, hummus hills, pita plains, and charcuterie slabs that could feed a small country. A band of four septuagenarians hacked out Beatles and Stones covers with the enthusiasm of men reliving their garage-band glory years.

I chatted with cousins and one of the guitarists, but inevitably the conversation veered into my professional life: “So, Jeff, what about AI in the classroom?” I gave them my stock answer: AI is a double-edged sword. It can turn us into lazy bots outsourcing our brains—or, on the bright side, it can make my grading life less of a grammar police beat. I explained that AI gives every student a free grammar tutor, a perk I never thought I’d live to see. And yes, I confessed my own guilty pleasure: I write a sprawling Nabokovian memo, feed it to the machine, and tell it, “Sharpen this. Add acid wit.” What comes back is so tight and sly that I want to light a candle in gratitude.

Left unsupervised, AI churns out limp, hollow paragraphs—Shakespeare’s “sound and fury, signifying nothing.” But with a solid draft and precise marching orders, it can take my word-bloated gasbaggery and spin it into crisp, surgical prose. The tool is neither angel nor demon; the sin or virtue belongs to the user.

Of course, I also sinned in the culinary department. My “moderation” consisted of three or four thick slabs of brie smothered with figs and crackers, plus a couple of carne asada tacos. I had a token bite of my daughter’s birthday cake, which was so sweet it could have stripped paint, but that was restraint by default, not discipline. I’m certain I left Pete’s bash two pounds heavier.

The drive home was mercifully shorter—just an hour—though Google still had the gall to insist the 405 was the “fast” route, lane closures and all. Let’s just say the 405 and I are on a trial separation for at least a year.

September 7, 2025
Blast from the Past: From Russia with Love: Angelo’s Ocean 214 Radio

On the topic of radios with a wooden case…presenting the Ocean 214—from Russia with love! I bought it from a seller in the Ukraine, so shipping was on the high side, but surprisingly, I didn’t have much competition bidding on the radio. I’ve been wanting to try a Russian/Soviet radio for quite a while, but simply couldn’t get excited about the VEF series, because…how can I put this nicely…”they ugly…butt ugly!”

The VEFs look like a big block of plastic with little or no imagination in the design. They might be great performers and high quality—I don’t know, because I’ve never played with one—but I’m not excited by the looks. Enter the Okeah—I saw a couple different ones from this manufacturer, and settled on the 214. I like the wooden case and the various surfaces and colors used to make up the package.

Mine is in good shape except for an antenna problem—the smaller top portions of the antenna pull out of the base. But it still receives well on all bands. Oh, but that’s the other problem—the writing is in Russian and I’m totally unfamiliar with the frequencies they use. So I push buttons and turn knobs until I hear people talking or I hear music. It’s an adventure.

The sound is good—in a way, similar to my Lloyd’s, supporting the argument that the wooden cabinet does have its own sound. In fact, the Okeah has more tone controls to play with and I can get a very satisfying deep sound for music, or a clearer, high pitched sound for talk. The shortwave bands do pull in stations nicely as well. I’m still figuring things out with regard to how these bands translate from radios I’m used to using.

I can recommend this radio if you have interest in getting an Eastern European manufactured radio. From the little I could find on Google, it seems the factory for this brand might be located in Belarus. There is much more information on VEF, who must have been a much bigger company. But I like the Okeah—I like the looks, I like the woodgrain and I’m satisfied with the performance. I will say that it appears to be old, and wasn’t babied as it was dirty when I got it, and apparently not extremely well maintained. But a few shots of tuner spray brought it to life and it sounds great. At some point, I might try my luck on E-Bay to see if I can turn a profit. But for now, I’m having too much fun with the radio.

September 6, 2025
Blast from the Past: Angelo’s Review of the Montgomery Ward Airline GEN-1494A Vintage Radio

Since the very first time I saw this model listed on E-Bay a couple years ago, I’ve wanted one of these: The Montgomery Ward Airline GEN-1494A.

I guess the thing that attracted me to this radio the most is the handsome looks. I like the symmetry of the dual tuning dials, divided by the power meter. I like the contrast of brushed aluminum and charcoal color plastics, encased in clear acrylic dial covers. I like the large but not huge size of the receiver. Simply, I like everything about this radio’s styling. I wouldn’t change anything—not even the orange and white frequency information, which looks great on the dark gray/black.

The materials are not quite up to Sony or Panasonic standards, but there’s nothing to be ashamed of here. It’s good quality stuff, certainly comparable to any Sharp or Sanyo of a similar vintage. It’s in that Toshiba/Hitachi category as far as I can tell.

Performance wise, it’s a winner. I was astounded by the shortwave reception—very, very close to matching the Sony ICF-5800 that I recently sold. It picks up shortwave signals that most of my other radios are unable to track. FM sound is strong, AM crisp. It’s very capable of getting the full compliment of AM-FM stations that my other good radios can receive. After the stellar shortwave performance, I was surprised that it didn’t perform well on the PSB 1 or PSB 2 options. They were pretty dead—and my old Arvin radios generally get activity on these bands. Maybe it’s just the night and the location.

Speaker sound is another high grade. While it’s not as powerful as the Panasonic 888, it has a pleasing sound. The “tone” adjustment actually does its job too. It’s equally good for talk or music.

This is a well balanced radio that I can heartily recommend. I have seen several of these over the years, and have bid on a few of them. I was never able to wrangle one until this one failed to cross the $30.00 mark, and I snatched it up in the closing minutes. It needed a little cleaning—and to get it to work on batteries, I had to use steel wool to remove corrosion from the battery compartment contacts—-but aside from those minor issues, it’s pretty darn nice. Perfect antenna, no major dings and a real player.

Is it a keeper? For me, there aren’t many keepers. I generally buy radios at what I consider a value price. After cleaning them up and playing with them for a few months, I’m willing to throw them back to keep funding my hobby and charting new territory—such as a very recent interest in old tube radios. But I have to say, the great shortwave performance, on this Ward model will make it a tough decision to let this go. Like my Panasonic 888, Zenith Trans-Oceanic 7000 and Grundig Ocean Boy 820, this Ward Airline 1494 has virtues that might make it a permanent fixture. That’s pretty strong company that this radio finds itself in.

September 6, 2025
Blast from the Past: Grundig Satellit 750

Greg, a reader from Ann Arbor, Michigan, was kind enough to Fed Ex me his Grundig Satellit 750, which has a Kiwa speaker upgrade. Therefore, I have to assume the stock 750 speaker sound has less fidelity than the one I’ll be using by my bedside for the next two weeks.

As I will be using the 750 as a bedside radio, I’m not too worried about fidelity since I’m not cranking the thing up by any means. All that I ask is that its AM sound not be as harsh and punishing as my C.Crane CSW. Thankfully, the 750 is easier on the ears.

When I took out the 750, I was amazed like other Tecsun radios at how light the radio is (Tecsun makes many Grundig and Eton radios, including the GS750). I prefer my radios to be heavy like tanks, which is why several months ago I went on a vintage radio spree, getting my grubby hands on some classics so that I could use them as a point of comparison for some of today’s radios.

Here’s the bright side of the GS750’s light weight: It makes a very good portable radio, much better than I initially thought. It’s easy to handle and not as big in person as you might think. If you’re a camper or do a lot of outdoor radio listening, I can recommend the GS750.

One thing I like about the 750 is the way it looks on my bedside table. Its cockpit control styling makes me feel like a little kid on a toy airplane or flying in a pretend rocket to Mars.

The 750 by your bed says boldly, “You have arrived at the Mothership.” Before I geek-out too much, let me transition to function and performance.

The learning curve for time controls, direct key entry, and presets is fairly easy. It took me about five minutes to comprehend the manual; however, I have toyed around with Tecsun radios before, so I am fairly familiar with their functions.

As a bedside radio, it’s nice that you can toggle through your stations with the up and down arrow buttons.

I haven’t used this radio at night yet and doubt it is illuminated sufficiently without my needing a pen flashlight. Clearly, the 750 is more of a general table radio than a clock radio, but I’m using it by my bedside because that is where I listen to radio most often and I want to get as many hours in as possible during my two-week loan.

What about performance? Excellent on FM and AM. I was able to eliminate birdy on weak AM stations by rotating the rotational antenna, called a Gyro on vintage Panasonics.

The FM antenna is huge and can be rotated 360 degrees. There is also an FM antenna button that gives you varying degrees of attenuation to maximize reception.

I’d say FM was as strong as my current FM champion, my C.Crane CSW. Better yet, the GS 750’s AM sounds much better.

Truth be told, I am more impressed with the GS750 than I thought I’d be. I love its look, its performance is excellent, its functions and options are plentiful without being too busy.

I think if I were to buy one on Amazon for their sale price of $220 and free shipping, I’d have to put it in the workout room and move the Boston Acoustics Horizon Duo, a completely different kind of radio, in my bedroom. The question is will I buy a GS750? Hard to say. For about $150, I should be able to get a C.Crane CCRadio 2, which may be a better fit in my bedroom. While I am confident the CCRadio 2, made by Sangean, will match the GS750’s AM performance and have richer speaker sound, I am not convinced that its FM will be able to compete with the GS750’s.

In any event, I don’t have to make a decision now. I have another two weeks with the GS750 to think it over.

September 6, 2025
Blast from the Past: Telefunken Banjo Automatic

Six inches tall and barely ten inches across, the Telefunken Banjo Automatic delivers a lot of effortless sound for a radio its size. This vintage came in good shape as the seller had cleaned it up, even took it apart and did a “deep clean” to all the knobs. So there’s no static to speak of. This arrived with no AC. It’s feeding of six C batteries.

Don’t be fooled by the swanky yellow. This colorful radio has outstanding FM reception and while the AM is above average it cannot light a candle to my bigger, brawnier Telefunken Partner 700, which at $40, cost me about half of the Banjo price.

The Banjo’s controls are smooth, and this bright yellow Telefunken feels upscale through and through, but if you’re Telefunken hunting, I recommend the bigger Partner 700. As good as the spunky yellow Banjo is, its speaker sound and AM sound loses to its bigger, more serious cousin.

In some ways it’s not fair to compare the two Telefunkens. The Banjo is a smaller portable, the Partner a heavier table radio. If I compare the Banjo to the similar sized Sangean PR-D5, the Banjo wins in speaker sound. The PR-D5’s small stereo speakers are so tinny my ears have trouble picking up the sound. In contrast, the Banjo fills a room easily. The FM on the Banjo is better than the PR-D5 and AM sound is similar. Of course, the $80 PR-D5 is new and digital and has presets so the comparison doesn’t quite work either.

One strange quirk about the Banjo that I’ve never encountered before is that AM numbers are inverse to the FM numbers so that 103.1 FM, for example, is close to 640 AM. Strange, but no big deal.

If you’re looking for a small travel companion, the Banjo is high-end and will not disappoint. If you’re looking for the majesty of a Panasonic RF-3000 (one just sold for over $300) and want to save some dough, check out the Partner 700, which I stole for $40.

September 6, 2025