The Mickey you never knew. And a little love, to lighten the mood.

I stopped with my daughters at the local Goodwill store today (they were looking for some clothing to use for cosplay . . . between their interest in jpop and the San Diego ComicCon, it was only a matter of time). While they searched the racks for bargains, I perused the shelves in the back of the store.

What impressed me was a mood that came over me, both wistful and bittersweet, and on occasion, sombering. In these stores you see the ebbs and swirls, the waves, if you will, of the crap our lives leave behind. Literally.

I know, a lot of stuff is garage-sale leftover, spring cleaning rejects, and the like. But like at the "White Elephant" (a charity thrift store in the retirement community of Green Valley, AZ), in many cases, someone has died and left a lifetime of collected 'stuff' to find it's way back into the material world. Who bought that "World's Best Grampa" coffee mug? Where is grampa? Dead? In the throes of dementia? Or maybe he just had all the coffee cups he needed, and what the hell, the kid is in grad school now?

Looking through the shelves, I saw a Vivitar 110 camera (long, thin, narrow . . . negatives the size of your fingernail, and the graininess showed with every photo that was developed). Just holding it in my hands and I was back at summer camp in the Adirondacks . . . it's 1982, and Human League is playing on the radio. Hanging with good friends who promised they would stay in touch forever, and then scattered to the four winds just a few years later. Toys on the shelves, storybooks and records that meant so much to me as a child, and here is the same book, the same boardgame. All those childhood emotions wrapped up in an object produced by the millions. And now it's on a shelf at Goodwill, wornout, forgotten . . . and overpriced at $3.99.

I know. Enough of this maudlin crap. But I can't help but think of what I saw just before my daughters approached with their newfound treasures and asked to head to the checkout. A framed handmade embroidered picture, yellowed with age and a bit weatherworn, it had just a few simple words, and was signed 'Sarah.'

"Remember me when this you see."

My career experience in commercial radio was nominal at best, and I spent most of my "media career" in local television before turning to the dark side and taking a position in the Ministry of Truth for an organization in the Desert Southwest. I'm being purposely obscure here, as my job's public responsibilities prevent me from expressing personal opinions. FarkleberriesUSA allows me that luxury (thanks Lenka).

Anyways, I digress. Radio.

There is a dearth of choice here in the radio spectrum that is downright brutal. One Oldies AM and one Talk AM, a Country FM, and two Hot AC ('Adult Contemporary'). There are some Mexican stations with Norteno music, but that's not really my thing (I did like the Tejano stuff I heard in Texas and New Mexico on the drive out here, though). And that one Hot AC features Delilah every evening (god, to see that woman dropped 500 feet into a vat of boiling saccharine would be too good for her).

Where was I?

Oh yes. Anyways, I had the good fortune to find XHMIX-FM, known otherwise in the region as 98.3, "La Zona" (The Zone), transmitting from the mountains of "La Rumorosa" outside Mexicali, Baja California, Mexico (WinAmp Filename: http://201.130.111.2:8001/.wma).

Now, it's not the outlaw powerhouse sung about by ZZ Top, but it's a powerhouse nonetheless, with a footprint covering large areas of four states in two countries. And the format, well, it's akin to "Jack," but with some actual heart and spirit to the DJ's. Seriously, the playlist is unpredictable. As I wrote this, I heard Bob Dylan singing "Mockingbird," followed by Dire Straits "Twistin' By The Pool," and then Billy Idol's "Eyes Without A Face." Screw iPod . . . I've got the X . . .

But here's the real kicker, and the reason behind the rant. In order to protect me from myself, my government (thanks, FCC) and the local stations that bow to them play only 'radio edits'.

So . . . in order to hear "my own music" uncensored and unfiltered, I have to, in the land of the free, tune in a "foreign" radio station.