Recently, I've come to the realization that the nucleus of an entire sensibility underpinning a huge swath of the art that I love, be it Don DeLillo novels or Hal Hartley films, a particular strand of deadpan absurdism, can likely be traced back to the times I spent in my early childhood sitting in the backseat of my parents' car while they listened to Joe Frank's radio programs during long drives (this was pre-internet, so my dad would make cassette copies).

Obviously, at that age a lot of what Frank was actually talking about went way over my head, and I was probably only half-listening much of the time anyway, but something about the lulling tone of his voice, while…

Recently, I've come to the realization that the nucleus of an entire sensibility underpinning a huge swath of the art that I love, be it Don DeLillo novels or Hal Hartley films, a particular strand of deadpan absurdism, can likely be traced back to the times I spent in my early childhood sitting in the backseat of my parents' car while they listened to Joe Frank's radio programs during long drives (this was pre-internet, so my dad would make cassette copies).

Obviously, at that age a lot of what Frank was actually talking about went way over my head, and I was probably only half-listening much of the time anyway, but something about the lulling tone of his voice, while…