Sunday night is always kind of a melancholy time, especially when it follows a weekend in which once again, Not Enough Got Done. Maybe that's why HBO's Sunday shows have done so phenomenally well. But for me, especially since Dexter is on too late so we wait till next weekend to watch, Sunday night means The Big Broadcast and Grand National Championship.
It's incongruous, to be sure. Rich Conaty spins three hours of jazz and pop tunes from the late nineteen-teens through the 1930's from 8-11 PM, making me imagine that I'm living in one of those dark-but-warm houses portrayed in one of Neil Simon's war memory movies, or in Woody Allen's Stardust Memories, or in A Christmas Story, or on weirder nights, the abode of Brother Justin and his sister Iris in Carnivále, a house full of overstuffed bilious furniture, dark mahogany breakfronts, and too-heavy window treatments; drinking Swee-Touch-Nee tea out of a china cup, darking socks and listening to a big Philco radio and wonder how the war in Europe is going.
At 9 PM, I time travel back to the present, where I channel my inner college student and tune into Kristin Barrick's Grand National Championship on Free Radio SAIC, experimental radio from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. GNC is a haven for old Morning Sedition geeks and other assorted liberals and strange people, where you're as likely to hear something good from the Talking Heads as you are to hear Pendejo the Revolutionary talk about Stompers, his shih-tzu who cannot be left alone.
What are YOUR Sunday night rituals to help you prepare for the living nightmare that is Monday morning?
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