The Story of The MGP

The Magnificent Glass Pelican (MGP) is a radio comedy, audio theater, live half-hour show that my friends and I have written, produced, and acted in for over two decades. It is broadcast from a college FM radio station during the school year, and even though none of us has had any connection with the school as an educational institution for many many years, no one seems to have noticed our graying hair and lack of school books, so the station keeps inviting us back. Or we bribed them when we weren’t looking. This current season is our 22nd, I believe.

That’s a lot of comedy.

Some of the members, “Pelicans” we call ourselves, have had long careers in the creative arts, some have gone on to careers in technical writing. I am retired. Among our influences are the usual suspects: Monty Python, Firesign Theater, Del Close. The late Matt Coleman, a beloved friend and Pelican, once declared to a newspaper interviewer that we “separate the wheat from the chaff and keep the chaff!”

Each Wednesday night at 7:30 p.m., the MGP half-hour is broadcast on 88.7 FM WFNP (“The Edge”) in the Rosendale-New Paltz, New York, area or live streaming here at this link. This is at 7:30 p.m. Eastern, and the broadcasts are not archived, so if you can check us out live tonight, thank you.

Here are two samples of our work, via my friend John’s SoundCloud stream; he is a founder of the Magnificent Glass Pelican and of the great rock/pop group, the Sweet Clementines. The first skit, “My Mother,” was written for us by our friend Brian Scolaro, who once upon a time shared a studio with us. I play the jury foreman. “We find the defendant guilty.”

And “Radio Pirates” is a personal favorite.

Again and always, thank you for listening.

Snow-taxia: Ataxia, Part 3

The first snowstorm of the year provided me with an opportunity to compare my ataxia symptoms from last year to now. I joked with a friend that weather like today’s gives everyone a moment to experience what it is like for me and other ataxians every dry, sunny day.

New Paltz, where I live, is laid out on a gentle downward slope to the Wallkill River, the north-flowing, rather narrow (only about 175 feet wide at New Paltz), tributary of the Hudson River. As this year unfolded, I became aware that walking downhill, even with a cane, is becoming a greater challenge. I take it slowly. Walking uphill, I can still develop a rhythm (this is the only chance I have to tell anyone that I have rhythm!) and make my way. 

Watching the snowflakes accumulate.
Photo by Mark Aldrich

I am very happy that I can walk safely. I refuse to give in to unhappy thinking about things lost or experiences that I can’t really do again–heck, I’d enjoy making snow angels like when I was a kid, but I do not know what the bottom half would look like (an angel on a stick? a realistic depiction of someone thrashing about in the snow?) and I and whomever would be standing by to pick me up (completely necessary) would pretty much erase it upon picking me up. I am lucky that I have people in my life who will pick me up if I fall in the snow. I can walk and I am not going to play emotional games with myself, listen to the inner monologue about how soon? How soon until I can not, or will not, or fall badly? (Soon enough, and my worst face plant of a stumble and fall so far in 2013 was on a sunny, dry day, anyway.)

So I ventured out this morning to visit my support group and not spend the day watching the snowflakes accumulate. At first, I was not going to risk a fall–after the first snowfall of the season, sections of New Paltz’s sidewalks sometimes remain snow-covered until around May 15–and I know that the cane is not my friend on ice. Things that I used to like about walking in winter, I no longer enjoy: the moment of unsureness, of feeling a slide start, or the sound of my boot punching a crunchy hole through what I thought was solid ground–these now represent some of the difficulties with the everyday that my new world offers me.

I safely arrived at my destination. No falls, no slips–so now I am probably falsely confident. (But I happily accepted a ride home.)