A.i In Creating A Tour Book For The South Bronx

I remember being potty trained on a little seat in front of a giant eye in the living room.

This is welcome home to CBS, welcome to the first TV channel of my childhood.

Decades later, I sat on a log in front of a majestic sunset over the quiet beauty of the land. This is the forest where aliens landed on the airwaves of the 1930s that caused some folks to lose control of their bowels courtesy of Orson Wells’ Mercury Theater on NBC Radio.

There is no mass media on rolling hills and blue skies of tranquility.

Media was all in a mind that tried to recover memories after head injuries. Life was like a bad transporter accident in the 1950s film The Fly starring Vincent Price and the 1980s remake with Jeff Goldbaum. My brain wanted to separate real experiences from media implanted ones like the movie Blade Runner. I didn’t want click heels to Kansas.

I wanted freedom to be real like Pinocchio. I’m nobody’s media puppet.

I remember being the first one on line for the grand opening of The Museum of Broadcasting on 51 Street and Lexington Avenue. Because of a new technology called VCR, I was able to see the first episode of a social engineering TV series called Star Trek. It was called Where No Man Has Gone Before. I also requested the first episode of The Twilight Zone, the brainchild of the great American TV writer, Rod Sterling. I saw an old lady in her farmhouse terrorized by tiny aliens that came from a strange little planet called Earth, home to a serpent in the Garden State called poison ivy. The log I had sat on was covered with it. That night, I cried out like a newborn with awful diaper rash.

Humor happens.

The woods are lovely but I have miles to go before I sleep, wrote the poet Robert Frost

In other words, to be continued…

Garbagelogy, The Art of Going Green, A Memoir On Media by Danny Aponte

Chapter One: Adventures In Nation Building In America

Warning: This Is A Laugh Track Free Blog.

Bring your own chuckles.

Promoting Literacy At Super Speed.

My mother’s building is now filled with the funk of Marijuana and the fungus of graffiti. It’s due to the homeless moved out of city shelters and into the neighborhood. Add a troubled economy and the super storm to spell out ominous. And of course, Sesame Street rocked with a sex scandal involving Elmo is another sign of The Apocalypse. How am I to do my homework on creating a tour book for The South Bronx? As the song goes, I never promised you a rose garden. 

I found another item in a storage box that activated a memory like a tiny star on a Christmas tree. It was a manual for my first electronic kit, one on assembling a series of neon lamps to fire at random or in sequence. Like a time machine, it took me back to when I carried Anne Frank in my arms as the shadows of burnt-out buildings and bullies fell over us in The South Bronx of America. After head injuries closed my mind, I had a dream where I met Anne. In spite having a photographic memory in childhood, I didn’t have a recollection of her ever being a journal. I do remember looking for parts in abandoned buildings to build a super computer to go beyond a design in a book called From Sand Tables To Electronic Brains. I was a boy who wanted to pattern intellect after a Vulcan science officer on Star Trek. I wanted to go where one has ever gone before.

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