Hot Air: The People Problem

I’ve long held that the biggest problem with democracy is people. The whole idea sounds great — the informed, committed citizens electing their own leaders, setting their own course, exercising free will, and demonstrating the political acumen of the common human being.

Bullshit.

Look who’s the president of this holy land. And look who’s in charge of the Italian gov’t now. A fellow named Giuseppi Conte who, acc’d’g to many sources, is as unqualified and just as boastful and disrespectful of silly things like truth as our dear leader. Of course, the Italian citizenry doesn’t exactly elect its president the way we do. Theirs is a parliamentary system. They vote for their representatives who then choose a boss. Here we vote for our representatives and our president and then the big corporate campaign contributors choose our big man.

Nevertheless, both our lands are now ruled by “populists.”

Populist: from the Latin populuspeople.

Wise?

Like I said, the problem with democracy….

Conversation With Koryta

Here’s the link to my Big Talk interview with bestselling author Michael Koryta. Big Talk airs every Thursday, 5:30pm, on WFHB, 91.3 FM.

Hot Air: Taken For A Ride

Stay Healthy — You Have No Choice

A guy I know has had some medical problems of late. He’s reasonably okay now, meaning he’s not about to drop dead.

He almost did, though, when he opened a bill that came in the mail. See, he’d had to take four ambulance rides in the last few weeks. The total cost? North of $7500.

America. The land were most people can’t afford to get sick.

One-Upsmen

President Gag and Kim Jong-un just played each other like cheap fiddles. Kim was hemming and hawing, keeping Li’l Duce and this holy land dangling while he publicly wondered if he should meet the American president next month. That was his gambit to keep his opponent off balance. P. Gag, not to be outdone, simply blew the whole thing up this AM when the White House announced the US/N. Korea summit is now kaput.

Heads, I win; tails, you lose.

What? You expected something more from the world’s two most idiotic leaders?

Crime On His Hands

Tonight’s Big Talk guest will be bestselling mystery/crime novelist Michael Koryta. His latest opus, How It Happened, was released this month and was inspired by a local event that happened when Koryta was 17 years old — the disappearance and murder of Indiana University student Jill Behrman.

Find out how the Behrman case ties in with Koryta’s latest today at 5:30pm on WFHB, 91.3 FM. As always, I’ll have the podcast links here tomorrow.

Hey, Get Some Cultcha!

Clear your calendars for the Bloomington Open Studios Tour two weekends from now. Some 14 local artists’ll open their doors to the public to show you that they actually do work, be it in oil, clay, metal, emulsion, or what the hell ever medium they’re wedded to, Saturday and Sunday, June 9th & 10th.

Click on the link, babies, for all the dope you’ll need.

And don’t forget the big Fourth & Rogers Block Party and magazine release bash a week from tomorrow, Friday, June 1st, 5-9pm, in and around the I Fell Gallery. The Limestone Post is celebrating the release of its first print special edition “A Sense of Place,” in which the proprietor of this very global communications colossus upon which your eyes are presently affixed has two — count ’em, two! — articles dealing with the history of this growing megalopolis.

BTW: You can cop your copy of “A Sense of Place” at the Book Corner, beginning Friday morning, June 1st. Remember when Mad magazine’s tagline used to be 75¢ — Cheap!? Well, ASOP, will cost you $7.50, still cheap when inflation is factored in.

The whole shebang is tied in with June’s First Friday gallery walk, with the brand new FAR Center for Contemporary Arts & Pictura Gallery complex opening up at that intersection, across the street from the I Fell.

And, y’know, you can grab some Rainbow Bakery sweets while you’re hanging around the 4th & Rogers intersection. I call the whole evening a win-win-win-win proposition.

Hot Air: Philip Roth

I can’t count the number of Philip Roth books I’ve read in my lifetime, beginning with Portnoy’s Complaint when I was 14. The Zuckerman Trilogy, 1979 through ’83 (which eventually turned out to be a quartet) was one of the driving forces behind my dream of becoming a writer. He, Norman Mailer, Fran Lebowitz, and Bill James, altogether, were initially responsible for me terrorizing the world with my wordsmithing all these years. But Roth was the first among those equals.

Roth

As I grew into middle-age-hood my infatuation with Roth largely wore off. I got sick of all his academic-world protagonists standing on their heads to get laid even as they entered their Viagra years. The fact that college professors got tumescent was a giggly, almost revolutionary development in the literary world in the late 1960s and into the ’70s. By the time the ’90s rolled around, the idea that a novelist or tenured prof was chasing all the young coeds the eye could see had become a big yawn.

Oh, and all those women who were so comely, such priapic prizes, turned out to be uniformly neurotic verging on dangerously psychotic. Or at the very least they were lying, cheating harpies. It got to the point that any new Roth novel was less a work of fiction than either a confession or a daydream, better left revealed to a nodding psychoanalyst.

The Plot Against America was different. In a way, it was almost prescient even though it was a period piece. I violated my Roth embargo to read that one, and it was well worth it.

Otherwise, I stopped reading Roth well before he released American Pastoral. I’m told it’s one of the greatest American novels of the second half of the 20th Century. Maybe I’ll pick it up now that Roth is dead. He cashed it in yesterday. I’m not saying I’ll rush right out to get American Pastoral. I still feel awfully gun shy about the world(s) Roth creates.

His own world — the real one — was no less unattractive than his imaginary ones. His second wife, the actress Claire Bloom, in her memoir Leaving a Doll’s House, described him as a terribly cruel, even vicious husband. As with Woody Allen, it’s difficult to separate the actual human from the artist when the human is an animal.

In any case, whether I read American Pastoral or not, I’m thankful for his early work, the stuff that made me fall in love with writing. I’m even more thankful I’m not a woman in his worlds, either real or imagined.

Hot Air: Buy & Bygone

Know Your Place

The United States Supreme Court did you and me a big favor yesterday when it ruled, 5-4 that contract employees could not press class action suits against their corporate employers for being, well, the greed-monkey jerks they normally are. Writing the opinion for the majority was Neil Gorsuch. You remember him, don’t you? The fellow who was nominated by President Gag to fill the Antonin Scalia vacancy after the Republicans staged a mini-junta and refused to allow then-Pres. Obama to seat his own nominee?

Junta leader Mitch McConnell.

And the favor the Court did us? It simply reminded us working people that we are powerless before the forces of unfettered capitalism and that our only acceptable roles in this 21st Century society are to work 60-hour weeks, shut our mouths, and pathologically consume all the useless shit our global economy produces, like bottled water, uniforms to ride bicycles in, Hello Kitty toasters, Fitbits, banana holders, guillotine bagel slicers, and everything else that keeps Asian workers on the assembly line at slave wages.

See, the Supremes didn’t want us running around starting to think we were anything more than consumerist cogs in the wealth-gap machine. Had we begun thinking we were, y’know, able to organize as workers, the five conservative Justices reasoned, we would become depressed at some time in the future when reality slapped us in the face. Nice guys, Gorsuch and his pals, no?

Critters

This item appeared in the Herald-Times this AM: A group called Stop Animal Exploitation Now! (SAEN) out of Milford, Ohio has demanded that Indiana University atone for some of the critter experimentation procedures employed in a certain series of tests it conducted for five years. The series of tests was suspended last July.

Acc’d’g to SAEN, researchers at the IU School of Medicine used trio breeding, killed some animals by breaking their necks w/o anesthesia, and conducted exploratory surgery on the critters in dirty rooms. SAEN says these practices were specifically forbidden by the contract between the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and IU Med. The NIH began funding the series of experiments in 2012.

SAEN wants IU Med to pay back the dough it’s gotten from the NIH, the only real punishment applicable to the school in this case, per its funding agreement with the federal biomedical and public health research agency.

Trio breeding, BTW, is a practice wherein the researchers pen up one male and two females — usually mice — for quick and predictable reproduction purposes, the idea being, you know exactly what the genetic characteristics of the three are and the two females tend to help each other raise the resultant litters. Animal rights advocates object to trio breeding mainly because it can lead to cage overcrowding; mice — like humans — don’t like to be squeezed together.

I’m sure the research that was being done by IU Med was important. Whatever maladies or pharmaceuticals the researchers were digging into probably would produce some advancement for human health. Still, it seems supremely ironic that the greatest medical minds of our species find it necessary to batter, snap, crowd, nauseate, and wipe out little guys in order to help our own kind feel better and live longer.

Real beings.

I don’t espouse stopping all animal experimentation. Over the last four or so decades, we’ve emerged from a sort of laboratory dark age when furry pals were tortured or executed not just to find cures for childhood cancers, say, but also to find more pleasing colors for lipsticks or mascaras that would adhere to our kind’s eyelashes better. In that sense, we’re better people — dare I say more humane? — than we were in, oh, 1967. Today’s animal experimentations are done under strict guidelines designed to minimize pain and unnecessary deaths

Nevertheless, we still bat around living beings for our own betterment. Yes, it’s vital we find cures for disease and drugs that can help us cope with illness. It’s also vital that we remember these little guys experience agony, deprivation, loneliness, and most, if not all, those other emotions we like to call “human.”

Absolutely Old School

Caught an episode or two of Absolutely Fabulous on Netflix the other day. I used to watch the thing religiously on Sunday nights on PBS. AbFab was the cutting edge, Brit-com snarkfest that originally aired in this county a quarter of a century ago. The BBC production featured two hard-drinking, uber-jaded fashionistas navigating their way through the casual sex-dripping, coke-fueled London of the early ’90s. The two main characters, Edina, editor of a tony fashion mag, and her best pal Patsy, an aging model, drink, fuck, snort, curse, outrage, preen, shriek, chain smoke, bully, and otherwise somehow get each month’s edition out and survive the vicissitudes of a crazy world and their own, crazier, selves.

Edina (Jennifer Saunders, L), Patsy, (Joanna Lumley, R), and a boy toy (middle).

Hardly a single line of it would be permissible to be written for laughs in this humorless age. Patsy, instance, can’t play ping-pong unless she’s bumped up and Edina often wonders how much more fabulous her life would be had she aborted her teen daughter, Saffron, when she had the chance. The signature gag comes, early on, when Edina, drunk and riding a few lines, tumbles into her own father’s grave after showing up late for his funeral.

I loved every minute of it.

Funny thing is, watching it now is the equivalent of my parents enjoying an old W.C. Fields movie in, say, 1968.

And the actress who played Saffy, 16 or so when the show originally ran, is now a middle-aged woman.

This tempus fugit thing can make a person feel sort of jittery.

Hot Air: Guns & Hoses

My Prayer? No Prayers.

How many times do I have to say this?

I’m sick to goddamned death of flags flying at half-staff, memorial services, and communities pledging to “survive.” All this folderol is nothing more than useless, annoying eyewash in response to America’s regularly scheduled school mass shootings.

Rather than bathe ourselves in bullshit, why don’t we figure out how to keep firearms out of the hands of crazed kids, psychopathic adults, drug-addled rage freaks, and others who shouldn’t come within two blocks of any device with a trigger.

Until that time, let’s stop with the prayers. They only serve to remind us how helpless we are.

Balk

Yesterday, I cancelled an appointment I had next month for a medical procedure that everybody in the world insists I get but, in reality, for a variety of reasons, I really don’t need. I won’t go into details except to say the author Barbara Ehrenreich in her latest book, Natural Causes: An Epidemic of Wellness…, describes the procedure as a form of rape.

Funny thing is, it took me a couple of weeks to get the guts up to cancel the app’t. Why? Because I, like the rest of humanity living in a corporate health care world, am afraid to disobey doctors. That’s right.

One doctor told me I had to do it. He referred me to the doctor who would do it. The second doctor’s office sent me a notification telling me all the things I should do to ready myself for the procedure, including ordering a “preparation kit” from him. Now, I’ve had this procedure done before and that time the doc who did it told me to go to the drugstore and buy the junk I needed. The cost, IIRC, about five bucks.

Guaranteed, this current doctor’s “preparation kit,” very likely consisting of the same stuff I bought years ago over the counter, would cost either me or my health insurance carrier a good fifty or a hundred dollars or more. Easy. That’s the way corporate medicine works. But that’s not why I wanted to cancel the procedure.

Yee-owch!

I did so because, to the best of my understanding, whatever horrors the test will uncover won’t affect me for many years, probably decades. How long do I expect to live?

Answer: I’ll take 20 years. That’d make me 82. Then I’ll be ready to turn in my ID badge.  Because what can one expect after the age of 82? Especially one who suffers already from a congenitally malformed heart, the resultant congestive heart failure, and has in the last couple of years been bombarded with so much radiation that the odds of me catching cancer again are so great Vegas wouldn’t even touch the proposition.

The procedure I’d been wanting to cancel supposedly will help add years to my life. Frankly, I don’t want that. I don’t want to be wracked with arthritis pain, alarming shortness of breath, the prospect of more chemoradiation treatments, the loss of continence and memory, and all the other things that happen to old bats. I’m an old bat already and I don’t want to suffer all too much more old bat-ism.

But our corporate medical system insists that I strive with every fiber of my being to extend my life into my 90s, my 100s, hell, even my 110s.

Why?

Also, our hierarchal, even patriarchal, doctor/patient paradigm demands we obey our medical practitioners. Did you catch that? Obey.

That’s why I was jittery when I dialed up the doc yesterday.

I guess I’m just disobedient.

Lost & Fickel

Whaddya doing next October, ’round about Hallowe’en time?

Guitarist extraordinaire Jason Fickel will be strumming his instrument — picking, plucking, and strumming, to be precise — in accompaniment of the movie The Lost World, a 1925 silent featuring then mega-star Wallace Beery. This scifi/horror shebang, based on the eponymous Arthur Conan Doyle novel (ACD himself actually makes a cameo in it) will run at the IU Cinema, Friday, October 19th.

One Of These Men Is Jason Fickel

Click on over to the Cinema’s website for ducat info (although you ought to keep your shirt on because tix aren’t on sale just yet).

 

Hot Air: Friday Fidgeting

Wisconsin — y’gotta love it.

And, y’know what? I still miss The Onion‘s fabulous USA Today graphics takeoffs. Hell, I still miss The Onion‘s hard copies, period. More than anything, I miss a world where The Onion was more outrageous and shocking than reality. That ain’t today’s world, babies.

Troglodyte

The lesson here: It pays to be an asshole.

To wit: The life and success of a fellow named Jordan Peterson.

Here’s a clip from the profile the New York Times ran about him this AM:

He is also very successful. His book, “12 Rules for Life,” which was published in January, has sold more than 1.1 million copies. Thanks to his YouTube channel, he makes more than $80,000 a month just on donations. Hundreds of thousands of people have taken his online personality tests and self-improvement writing exercises. The media covers him relentlessly.

In short, Peterson’s message is men are better than women, there’s no such thing as white privilege, and H.L. Mencken was right: “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.” It should be noted, though, that Peterson does not intend to convey that last item. Nevertheless, it’s true, true, true.

As if we hadn’t had that truism hammered into our skulls with the 2016 election.

Bloomington’s Richey History

As advertised in my previous post, yesterday was Big Talk/Big Mike’s B-town doubleheader day. Historic preservationist Derek Richey got the B. Mike treatment. Go here for yesterday’s Big Talk episode and here for the Limestone Post piece on him.

Now then, what’s in the hopper for this global communications colossus? Next week’s Big Talk features New York Times bestselling author Michael Koryta. My next BM’s B-town will focus on jazz geek David Brent Johnson. As for the rest of the weeks leading up either to my timely demise or the end of the world, well, fortune will provide me ideas — and, hey, maybe you will too. Suggestions for either my WFHB show or my LP column will always be welcomed.

Talk soon.

Hot Air: Mr. Big Stuff

Talking & Writing

It’s double-header Thursday again. That means you get Big Talk on WFHB and Big Mike’s B-town on the Limestone Post, all in one orgiastic 24-hour period.

My guest/subject this week is Derek Richey, co-founder of Bloomington Fading, co-author of Bloomington: Then & Now, board president of Bloomington Restorations Inc., as well as regional development manager for the March of Dimes. Phew!

The Limestone Post piece is in the universe already. Go here for it. My Big Talk interview with Derek will air this afternoon at 5:30pm on WFHB, 91.3 FM.

Click for Limestone Post article.

Next week on Big Talk, New York Times bestselling author Michael Koryta talks about his new book, How It Happened.

BTW: Koryta’s dropping in to the Book Corner sometime this week to autograph every copy of every title of his we have on hand. Let’s be safe and say if you come in Saturday for an MK book — the new one or any of his older efforts — your spanking new copy will bear his signature. Cool, huh?

Talk soon.

Party Time

And do not — I repeat: do not — forget the Limestone Post‘s big bash Friday, June 1st, 5-9pm, at the I Fell Gallery. The reason for the party — as if anybody really needs a reason to throw a party — is the release of the LP‘s first print edition, entitled A Sense of Place. It’s all about Bloomington, natch, and the founder of this global communications colossus — me — appears a couple of times in the to-be-released mag. Check out my pieces on Bloomington’s 1971 election and Hoagie Carmichael’s early 20th Century hangout, the Book Nook.

Not only will there be art, performance, witty banter, bohemians of every stripe, and copies of the mag for sale inside the I Fell, there’ll also be a block party on the street outside the place, with food, community booths, family fun, and all sorts of neat distractions.

LP publisher Ron Eid, marketing and advertising genius Emily Winters, and horsewhip-snapping editor Lynae Sowinski all have turned in yeoman (yeoperson?) efforts to get this thing out on time. It’s beautiful and you damned well better start clearing a space on your coffeetable for it ’cause if you have visitors this summer and they don’t see A Sense of Place lying around, they’ll think you’re…, well, a loser. Are you willing to take that chance?

Summertime

Hot Air: Democracy, Or Something Like It

The Day After

Primary election results are in for Monroe County.

The takeaways:

  1. The Monroe County Democratic Women’s Caucus right now is the single strongest political bloc as far as the eye can see in these parts.
  2. Normally I’d be voting in lockstep with the likes of the DWC but this time some of the favored candidates of that gang left me cold — or at least feeling a bit chilled — resulting in a near shutout for my picks. For pity’s sake, after 2016 and now with yesterday’s results, I’m starting to feel the way I did before 1992 — that is, if I’m for a candidate and you’ve got money burning a hole in your pocket, put it all on whomever I’m against.
  3. I’m setting the over/under on when Amanda Barge declares for mayor in the 2019 primary at Nov. 30. My guess is she’ll wait out this current election cycle, give us all a few days or weeks to decompress, and then start the next one up with her announcement. And, harkening back to bullet point number one, she’ll have the DWC behind her. If I’m Mayor Hamilton, I might start chewing my fingernails.

[L-R] New Dem candidate for Circuit Court Judge Darcie Fawcett, County Dem Chair Mark Fraley, and Barge.

Now, let’s take a breath for a month or so and then start getting all het up for the general beauty contest in the fall.

The Hippie In The White House

A guy I know, an old punker form the La Mere Vipere days in Chicago, just called Richard M. Nixon our “last liberal president.”

Now, the orthodox among us on the left may be collapsing of heart attacks at this moment after reading the above line, but think about it for a minute. Was Nixon, the man, a liberal? Certainly not. But because the liberals of this holy land in the years 1969 through 1974 were so focused on the issues and so mighty in numbers — and that includes the tens of millions of American workers who belonged to labor unions — whoever was president simply had to bow to them.

So, during the Nixon administration the following extremely liberal advances took place:

  • The establishment of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA)
  • The establishment of the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA)
  • The Clean Water Act
  • The 26th Amendment, mandating the 18-year-old vote in all elections
  • Detente with the Soviet Union
  • Opening diplomatic relations with China
  • The Warren Burger Supreme Court (he was nominated by Nixon) allows abortion, bans capital punishment, reaffirms both the religious establishment clause and school desegregation
  • Troop withdrawals and “Vietnamization” begin
  • The global Nuclear Non-Prolifertaion Treaty goes into effect
  • The first “Earth Day” is celebrated

Hell the US Army even named its first two female generals and Garry Trudeau’s “Doonesbury” debuted. I could go on and on, but you take my point. The Nixon years were a hell of a sight different than today is. Don’t get me wrong: the conservatives, the war hawks, the crypto-segregationists, and the burgeoning Randists all still held many — even most — of the strings that controlled this holy land back then.

Lefty?

And don’t get me wrong on this either: Nixon wasn’t the champion of most or even any of the above-mentioned steps forward. He was forced into acting on them, where and when he could, by public pressure. To credit Nixon with these historical landmarks would be the height of misunderstanding. Nevertheless, he signed the bills, he issued the executive orders, he created new departments and agancies, all of which we’d consider to to be ginat leaps for humankind — and the Radical Republicans would characterize as “socialist.”

 

Hot Air: Weekend Wondering

[Image: Adrees Latif/Reuters]

President Gag this week spoke to the 80,000 or so Murricans attending the National Rifle Assn’s annual meeting in Dallas. Natch, he genuflects before that crowd because, well, the two most likely population groups that would be attracted to an anti-intellectual, idea-free, proudly uninformed, thin-skinned, megalomaniacal, borderline sociopath who won the presidency on a technicality would be 1) obsessive gun fondlers and 2) bible thumpers. No doubt he’ll be cooing and wooing some similar gathering of the god gang soonly.

Anyway, here’s a quote from his speech:

Your 2nd amendment rights are under siege, but they will never, ever be under siege as long as I am your President.

Folks on my side of the fence are all agog over this one because, at a glance, it doesn’t make any goddamned sense. See, they don’t understand Gag-speak. He’s used seemingly contradictory constructions like this before, I’m sure, and they’ve worked for him.

For instance, whenever one of his ex-wives found out he was philandering on her and called him on the carpet for it, he would most likely say something like:

Yes, dear, our marriage has been violated by my infidelity. But the holy trust and bond between us, our marriage consecrated by the laws of the land and god, will never be violated by any infidelity on my part, I can assure you.

And — y’know what? — that plea, that mea culpa, that pledge of honesty and eternal loyalty, worked. You bet it did.

‘Course, the fact that each of those ex-wives has been assured a lifetime of comfort, wealth, and privilege as long as she keeps her trap shut about any such bedroom conversations might have helped as well.

A Foolish Consistency

Okay, so if you voted for President Gag you and I can, potentially, have a lively debate over your choice. In the long run, though, it’s pointless for us to argue because we’d only be talking past each other. The ways in which you and I see the world are so different, so irreconcilable, that it’s terribly unlikely we’d ever find a common ground of understanding.

That applies, really, only to those who love Li’l Duce with all their hearts. They see an acquisitive, aggressive, uber-male who clearly views sensitivity, compassion, altruism, and the ancient Greek concept of philia as silly wastes of time as the perfect leader for our holy land.

No, they and I can never come to terms.

Then again, there are those who voted for the future P. Gag even after they voted once and, in some cases, even twice for Barack Obama for president. Yesterday’s New York Times carried a piece about that swath of the electorate:

The people who were (and are) the true believers in Li’l Duce may frustrate me, but those who flipped from BHO to DJT anger and annoy me. Lots of them bought into both candidates’ pledges to wash Washington clean of its past sins and sinners.

It’s like a set of parents who for months since their baby was born have bathed her in warm water and gentle soap. Then, suddenly, they decide to scrub her down using undiluted Pine-Sol and then, when someone says, “Hey, whoa!” they respond, “What’s the problem? I’ve always wanted a clean baby.”

 

Hot Air: Killing The Messenger

Among the top villains in the President Gag admin. (w/ the exception, of course, of the chief dope himself), as many, many people opposed to Li’l Duce see it, is spokesbeing Sarah Huckabee Sanders. She’s been vilified as no one in that position since Dick Nixon’s squealer, a former Disneyland carnival barker (true story) named Ron Ziegler.

Me? I have no quibble with SHS. After all, she’s a flack and…, well, let me let Chip Berlet, investigative journalist and tracker of right wing groups, explain things:

OK, She makes me crazy, but … I think much of the criticism of her is sexist. Her job is to represent to the press what the Presidential staff tells her is reality. It is not her job to say the White House is run by a bunch of liars. When she tells the media that she is telling them the information she gets from the White House staff–she is telling the truth.

Sanders

Sarah Huckabee Sanders is not the problem here, folks, any more than the eardrum-piercing noise of all the fire engines’ sirens is the problem when your house is on fire.

Big Talk, Big Country

Did you miss my gabfest with Russophile Tristra Newyear yesterday on Big Talk? Don’t sweat it: Here’s the link to the podcast.

Tristra, one of our town’s many supremely talented wordsmiths, has written an historical fantasy novel, The Tomb and the Stone, a family drama set in the Central Asia Buryat region of good ol’ Russkie.

The Buryatia region, nestled between Mongolia and Siberia.

Next week, stay tuned for a double play — two guests, bestselling poet Ross Gay and singer songwriter Kacie Swierk.

Big Talk airs every Thursday at 5:30pm on WFHB, 91.3 FM. Then, an added treat, sort of a Big Talk unplugged, Big Talk Extra, a feature of the Daily Local News at 5pm, runs every Monday with material left on the cutting room floor from the previous week’s show. Other future Big Talks include Derek Richey, founder of Bloomington Fading, and bestselling author Michael Koryta, whose newest mystery, How It Happened, inspired by the Jill Behrman murder here in 2000, will hit the streets May 15th.

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We’ll talk.

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