Voicemail To Voicemail

Long three day weekends are never wasted by naps. The same is true with long, boring college classes. Naps are essential components of life, even if you're not very good at them. Which some of us are not. But perhaps someone can tell us how to nap. I don't know about you, but reading that thing made me sleepy.

Something that might keep you awake is this past week's episode of Self Help Radio, which had the improbable theme of "Saturday Night." You can listen to this show here & no matter what day it is, you can turn your it into Saturday night. I can say that another way. No matter what time of day it is, you can turn it into Saturday night. I can't say it any other way.

Since I work during the week like some people I know, I often cannot commit to the napping process. This makes me all forty-two kinds of sad. I consume large qualities of caffeine which is luckily available in easy-to-urinate soda bottle flavors. I occasionally wander out from the frigidaire air conditioning into the "real world" which in the summer in Texas is about three degrees cooler (Centigrade or Fahrenheit, it makes no difference for this hyperbole) than the average temperature of Hell, & the effect is much like an accidental belly flop in a public pool. (By the way, we called those "belly busters" when I was a kid, & trying to find images or videos of that online was a bust. Instead, "belly buster" seems to be a synonym for dieting. Or a chain restaurant in California. Or both.) I try to take seconds-long cat naps at the desk which make me seem drunk & stupid. Sometimes these things help, sometimes they don't. Mostly they don't. God I am sleepy.

I can't think of anything more to say about naps. But I have run out of time to leave you voicemail. I meant to leave you voicemail so you could leave me voicemail. I wanted to ask your something. No I can't. But don't call back right now. Call me back when you're sure I have remembered what I was going to say.

The Years Have Not Been Kind

Amerigo Vespucci was a punk. There. I said it. On the fourth of July.

What would he care? Dude was Italian, after all. He would no more have wanted to hang with James Madison that you would. Now that guy was short. Teeny, really. Shortest United States President ever. Shorter by nearly a foot than his best butt buddy Jefferson. He could barely look over the Official Presidential Podium. They made him stand on a milk crate. In fact, one of the first crises of his presidency was when Charles C. Pinckney stole the milk crate during Madison's first two months. For this, you know, Pinckney was kneecapped by the Secret Service.

Of course, Vespucci was also a notorious firebug, so he probably would've loved to be at the White House when the British burned it down. So maybe he would've enjoyed having a slice of pizza & laughing laughing laughing at shrimp boat Madison while the mansion was in flames. But one shouldn't speculate about such things, not on America's birthday.

Vespucci also was fond of what would later be called "Cartesian Erotica," because Descartes made it popular at the court of Louis the thirteenth. But neither Vespucci nor Descartes really knew that that smut wasn't French nor Italian in origin, but Manichaean, originating in the more perverse writings of the bawdy upper class of the Sassanid Empire. It surpassed the rather tame Catholic porn of the time, which inevitably had to have the Pope involved, or at least an abbott with a strap-on. So while it was a step up, it most certainly wasn't as much fun as Boccaccio. That mofo knew how to throw down.

If you must celebrate the lucky sumbitch who got two continents named after him, not to mention a country sort of, go ahead. No one's stopping you. I know he wrote a few really good songs that emo bands cover regularly (although no one has ever really done a really good cover of his hit single "I Got Them Ain't No Way It's Asia, They'd Rather Believe Henry The Navigator, But Fuck Me If It's Not A Fourth Continent Blues") & I know he invented the shrug, but he was a punk. That's all I'm saying.

Snake Finger Sandwich

Since tomorrow is the Fourth Of July, which is a national holiday because no other month has the number four in it, I figured I'd do an American thing & link to this article/speech by E.L. Doctorow which is an exquisite discussion of how fucked our nation is. It's not nearly as funny as George Carlin, but it'll do.

I should also note that this weekend, which I for one have noted nearly two times before is a three-day weekend because of the Fourth Of July (so have a fifth of something on me) (just don't make yourself sixth), is the birthday of our youngest, Winston, pictured below when we still had green grass in our backyard - come to mention it, when we still had wood he hadn't chewed up in our backyard. He'll be one. He's a dwarf, which means he's had lots of health issues, & we've had a lot of dire predictions about how long he'd live (one vet told us he'd be dead a month from his visit), but he's much, much healthier now & as much a part of our household as the whiskey & the air conditioner. Happy birthday little Winston!



I may have something to say tomorrow, but I'll still busy gathering "Saturday night" songs for this week's show. It does something weird to your mind to spend all week thinking about Saturday night - although I suppose I'm now more like most Americans than I care to admit. So much for Independence Day!

Whither Saturday Night?

That sounds like the title of a song!

Here's something perhaps mildly interesting about having this blog thing which virtually no one reads (except you, of course) & having written in it for a couple of years & there being lots of different titles & stuff: it causes search engines consternation. Or is that possible? Maybe it causes the users of search engines consternation. That sounds more appropriate. I will give you a few examples of search engine terms that have brought unsuspecting folks to this blog. I wish I knew what they made of it!

By far the saddest search phrase that brought a person to here is this: "leave my husband alone." Imagine! I happened to title one of these entries that about a year ago. I wish I could help. But what a weird sentence! Who would say such a thing? & if your husband is being bothered, shouldn't he be man enough to say it himself?

Or maybe this is sadder: "leave me alone husband." Yeah, that's sadder. It also sounds like the title to a song!

I titled an entry "Online Toffee Makers Revolt!" about a year ago, & so it found its way to someone looking for "online toffee makers." I don't personally know how to make toffee online, but I hope the person found it despite my obfuscation.

Someone found this blog by typing in "how to have whiter teeth." THAT is some self help.

Or what about this search phrase: "conjugal visits in austin texas"? Wouldn't you want to hear THAT story?! (The blog title, from last year, was "Early September Conjugal Visit." How I wish I could have really been talking about conjugal visits! Can they happen if your jailer is your own damaged self?)

Sometimes they're just odd. Here are a few:
- insomnia court cases
- quilting in Photoshop
- ferrigno disease
- runners are lame
- suck my fucking cock you prick

Okay, the last one isn't true. I just wanted to be profane.

I get a lot of hits for people looking for someone named "Gary Dickerson." That is, of course, me, but I understand (heck, I've even blogged about it) that there are other Gary Dickersons out there. But why not say hello if you know or don't know me? Maybe you're checking to see whether I've finally grown tired of the rot inside me & done what everyone expected me to do right after high school, which is eat a bullet all the way up my brain. Sorry! It hasn't happened yet! Be patient!

Oh, er, um, Saturday night. It's fun, right? Wanna go out?

Preface To Saturday Night: It's Just Tuesday Afternoon. Calm Down.

For the past few weeks what I believe is a Bewick's Wren has been living in a hole in our garage, near the washer & dryer. This was, it turns out, a very wise thing, as only things with wings (unlike cats, say, or perhaps beagles) could get in or out, & sex was had & eggs were laid & soon enough I noticed whenever I let the dogs out that there was a lot of action going on, including the peeking out of little beaks from the hole & a harried-looking parents stuffing dead things into said beaks. At no point, by the way, did the Bewicks offer to pay any rent nor did they seem ashamed of their sudden, obviously fecund tenancy. Oh no. They acted as though they were entitled.

Time passed. On Sunday, the youngest of the household beaglets, known only as Winston, was seen perhaps chasing a live thing around the yard. It turned out that this was a baby bird with still some of whatever they call the feather fluff that's on them. Winston was dutifully taken away & forced to read the Bible (which he instead ate, so now he has to read Dianetics, which he refuses to eat) & we waited & sure enough, we soon found the happy parents (terrible tenants) leading the two youngsters through the treetops. The miracle of life in our own backyard! Without all that unnecessary voice-over work!

My point is this: you 21st Century Kids think everything revolves around a Saturday night. You think "party, party, party" even though the planet is dying & our frisbee-shaped alien overseers are eating our glaciers in protest! You can't see your hands in front of your trees - forest - whatever that saying is - because you've turned this one night of the week into some kind of holy time. Imagine, making some particular day a holy day! That would be so fucking dumb! Like, say, if I said, "You can't work on Sunday because it's a holy day." You'd be likely to give me a purple nurple & run away laughing. That's how inane it is. & you're doing it with Saturday night! Can't you see?

Listen to this: the miracle of life I described above, not the bird sex which is kind of sick, but the babies leaving the nest & going out to become accountants or file clerks or restaurant owners (like birds do), that happened not on a Saturday night, but on a Sunday afternoon. You heard me! You know what else? I never have magical things happen to me on a Saturday night. So there. You're proven wrong.

We could compromise. Let's make it Thursday midday. After all, you can sleep it off at work & no one will notice because it's Thursday. I'll bring my dark sunglasses, you bring the Riunite on ice. That's nice.

Countdown To Brush Fires!

Last week, I believe on Friday but it could have been earlier, my lovely girlfriend Magda bought me a number of two liter bottles of my (almost literal) poison of choice, which is Diet Dr. Peeper, of which I consume an enormous amount, mainly to let my organs know how much I dislike them. Fuck you gall bladder! This was very sweet of her but because it's been about one hundred & fifty degrees here every day & because she left them in the back seat of our car, some of them burst & others looked like some liquid had evaporated away & some had weird rounded bottoms because of the heat. Imagine if she had left our baby in there! Hell, imagine if we had a baby!

Some of the bottles were ruined, so I ate them. I mean, so I emptied them & put them in a recycling bin. The others seemed fine, so I put them on the shelf & ate them. No, no. I just put them on the shelf.

Because I am terrified of expiration dates (I never seem to finish stuff in time), I always put new stuff in back, & I had a few bottles left. But later in the day I thought, "Perhaps I should taste them. Just in case. While I still have some old bottles left."

So I did. You know that way you feel when you open a seemingly new bottle of wine & have a sip & it's spoiled or been corked or it's just a bottle of urine someone left at your party because they're an asshole? Somehow this was worse. See, Dirt Mr. Pipper doesn't really taste like regular Dr. Ripper. It doesn't really taste like anything soda-y at all. It's not good, but luckily I've acquired a taste for it & I need a regular caffeine delivery system that doesn't involve hot liquids. (It's better than anything else, though. Diet Croke can SUCK IT.)

This taste was like what plastic-eating plastic beings enjoy as a refreshing beverage. This taste was like if you fell asleep in the pool with your mouth against a plastic pool ball & the sun was hot & it slightly melted into your mouth. This taste was like making out with Plastic Man. It was awful.

I tell you all this because I can't seem to get it out of my mouth. I've tried everything, even hot liquids, but no luck. If you'd like to help, one way to start is to visit selfhelpradio.net & listen to last week's show, which was & is about "cut," whatever that means. It may not seem to help, but I promise it will.

& kids, don't leave sodas in the car on hot days. What the fuck were you thinking?

Weird. I Missed A Day.

You heard me! I zoned out today working on tomorrow's fabulous show & missed writing in my blog! Also, I'm going to visit my mother tomorrow, so my brain is only working at embarrassed second grader capacity. Forgive me. I'll write more funny funny the next time.

But can I remind you that tomorrow at selfhelpradio.net there'll be a new show? & though I will be sober, it'll still be ugly? Wait. What?

Did You Want Extra Extra With That?

While virtually unknown outside the seedy world of truck stops & logging towns, Self Help Radio continues to this very day to provide musical foodstuffs to a tone-hungry world. For this June of 2008 (patent pending), Self Help Radio offers once more an "extra" in the form of Self Help Radio Extra, a homemade mix made by a homeboy called me in the privy of my own home. It features new stuff from the likes of Johnny Foreigner, Sparks, Tilly & The All, & The Sound Of Arrows plus old stuff that the new stuff reminded me of. Have a look. Have a listen. It's from me to you.

Self Help Radio Extra. Insert some made up slogan here, but make it sound like the deep voice who did the "Better than it has to be, Amalie" commercials in the 80's. Which I can't find on You Tube. But I did find a piano-playing cat. So that's something.

Whither Cut?

There are sixty-five definitions for the verb "cut" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Can you imagine? Let me say that again, in bold: There are sixty-five definitions for the verb "cut" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Such a little verb!

Now you may be thinking, with sixty-five definitions for the verb alone, surely a show of this kind can be easily done, & the host must be a lazy fuck indeed. But wait! Some of the definitions are bee-zar! Listen:

8. b. (slang or colloq.) to cut it too fat: to ‘come it strong’, overdo a thing.
10. To break up, reduce, or dissolve the viscidity of (a liquid, phlegm, etc.).
30. Dancing. (intr.) To spring from the ground, and, while in the air, to twiddle the feet one in front of the other alternately with great rapidity.
44 c. (used in cheese-making) To add extra stank to the cheese; to poot it up.

Okay, I made up the last one. But seriously, that's all fourteen different kinds of nutty! I can't find any songs for such things!

My favorite use of cut is of course definition 22b:

22. b. To dilute or adulterate. Chiefly U.S. "He cut his heroin with confectioner's sugar to make it more delicious."

The show isn't really supposed to be about the kind of cutting we associate with goth girls. Although I'd love to listen to a radio show about these kind of cutters. But they don't even have a complete wikipedia entry!

I know the one you like best. Admit it, music lover: 23d.

23 d. Sound Recording. To record; to make (a record). orig. U.S.

Or is it 21e, film buff?

21. e. (Cinemat., Radio.) trans. To edit (a film, etc.). Also intr., to make a quick transition from one shot to the next. imp. A signal to stop.

"Cut!"

You'll find me in my trailer.

Preface To Cut: A Lifetime Fighting Against Shaving

First two paragraphs of a new science fiction blockbuster I'm writing:

Ronald stood silently with a cap gun against the head of his little brother Rudolfo. Rudolfo had no idea whether the cap gun was loaded or not. Plus he really had to go pee pee & knew that, the minute the cap went off, not only would he experience a painful ringing in his head (this wasn't the first time Ronald had put a cap gun to his head), but he'd also pee all over himself. NOT AGAIN! he thought to himself.

Ronald had only the slightest sense of his little brother's plight. Unbeknownst to Rudolfo, Ronald was able to sense, unlike other human beings, the invisible aliens which live among & slowly eat the souls of human beings. Ronald had watched his parents get consumed until all that was left was their bodies as empty husks. He didn't want it to happen to him, & he definitely didn't want it to happen to his little brother Rudolfo. NEVER AGAIN! he thought to himself.

A word about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder may be inserted into this section of the narrative at some future time. The wikipedia article is kinda long & I am still a little sleepy after lunch. Also, while readers may assume Ronald & Rudolfo are children, I need to add dialogue which suggests they're in their late thirties & spend way too much money on strippers.

Also, Kjuch, the lead soul eater, should eventually realize that his people, by eating the souls of corporeal beings, are endangering their own immortal souls, as he realizes by reading, while he's eating a fundamentalist preacher, the Bible in the preacher's hands. Kjuch then attempts to proselytize to his people, but they don't want to learn to read & they argue that the religious people, whose souls are already kinda thin, taste worse than the non-believers. Kjuch sticks to his guns & starves to death, as his people can't eat anything but human souls.

Note: can we get that "Young At Heart" group to do the soundtrack? Maybe covering nothing but Siouxsie & The Banshee songs. & make it a point that both Ronald & Kjuch move their lips while they read. That'll establish the empathic relationship between monster & hunter required for the ages 14 - 21 demographic.

There'll need to be a seemingly plausible radiation sequence where Kjuch is visible to all humans - or maybe just Shriners - & them a long boat chase through Venice. I've always wanted to go to Venice. I've always wanted a boat chase.

For further reading, I suggest you listen to last week's Self Help Radio, which was about TRASH, available not at finer stores near you, but at the shabbily appointed website called selfhelpradio.net. This podcast not only contains the germs of this science fiction blockbuster, but... No, it just contains the germs. It's trash, after all.

Stay tuned! I haven't finished writing this & now Singapore businessmen are offering me seventeen million dollars if I let their favorite hookers play the strippers in the movie. This should be in post-production in time for Christmas!

George Carlin

I just found out. I shouldn't be sad - he lived one hell of a life. Imagine! Being so funny, so smart, so insightful - & getting paid for it? Because that what he did. His is a voice that'll be missed.

I had a really good friend - my very first best friend - in middle & high school named Scott Hauff. Scott was always quoting George Carlin to me, routines like the "hippy-dippy weatherman." It was one of those cases where I initially thought he - that is to say, Scott - was coming up with the routines. Not that he took credit for it, but he did make me laugh enough to go to the source.

Sometimes I can be a prude & find coarse humor a little too much, so I've never been a fan of his fart jokes. I'm not interested in the least in marijuana, so the fact that my stoner brothers spoke of him as being in the same category as Cheech & Chong was off-putting. What attracted me first to Carlin in my adult life was his observations on language. Here are two mp3s from the audio version of what I suppose is his last book, When Will Jesus Bring The Pork Chops?, which are his observations about the language of poor people:







His observations on language of course led him to talk about politics & how those in power use language to keep power. John Nichols has written a piece about him called George Carlin: American Radical that says it better than I could.

I don't mean to focus just on that aspect, because he was just as funny when he was being absurd. He was one funny motherfucker, but his humor could also lead you to profound insight. There are very few comedians about whom you can say that.

Man. A lifetime of quotes, observation, gut laughs, embarrassment. I still think of what he said about air travel whenever a plane lands & the crew says "Welcome to [insert city]!" Carlin said, "How can they welcome you if they just got there themselves?"

Of course, as a radio guy, you know the bit that has probably affected me most in my "career." It led a Supreme Court case that defined what we can & can't say on the radio. & his routine was read into the decision. Immortality!

I never got to see him live (just on the TV), but I've gobbled up as much as I can find & will continue to do so. & of course I've played him on my show whenever possible. I'll miss his insight, but I'll say again, he lived one hell of a life. I'm glad I existed in the world when he did for as long as I did. & I'm glad we existed together in a time when his observations & writings could be saved & easily accessed.

Thank you, George Carlin, & goodbye!

The Inbox Crowd

Much thanks to the weirdo who thought he would repay me for the suggestion of the album cover to name matching game yesterday with a link to Puzzlefarter. Yes, I've been playing it. No, I am not very good at it. That should come as a relief, but it does not. I like to win!

I am about to go record the airbreaks for the Trash show. I have a special guest, a person who writes books about the garbage of famous people. Do you think he'll smell nice? I hope so. It's a smallish place where we record. One unpleasant aroma could ruin the whole session. But the show will be great. Trust me on this. Much, much better than the imaginary one I did in my head four years ago. That one sucked.

Do feel free to send me links to ridiculous online games that are a complete waste of time. Otherwise I'll do work, & no one - not even my boss! - wants to see my do that.

& do find me tomorrow afternoon at selfhelpradio.net for this week's show - all about trash. I haven't heard it yet, but I think it'll be awesome.

Not Any Longer Confessive Obpulsive

Ack! I can't stop playing this game! It's a game where you have like twenty seconds to match nine album (or CD) covers with the names of the record. I'm not very good at it, though. The category I most find myself in is "alternative" although if they had a category called "records Gary's brothers had that he rifled through continually when he was a young kid" I'd be awesome at it.

There were certain records I would never have listened to, not in a million years, but whose sleeves I found amazing, like a panel of a long comic book the rest of which existed entirely in my head. For example, the cover to Queen's News Of The World (the image doesn't show you how the record folded out), which I would never, even as a kid, have listened to of my own free will, although, of course, I've heard the songs "We Will Rock You" & "We Are The Champions" more times than my mother ever told me she loved me. But the cover! An alien made of stone killing all those hippies! The stories that album cover brought into my head!

There were other memorable ones, but I can't find images of them online - I guess they were not as famouss, or maybe I'm remembering the names wrong - but games like this do make me miss vinyl & the attention lavished on album covers. Maybe I suck at the game because most of the records in the "alternative" category are from CDs & who the fuck pays attention to a CD cover?

Record collecting friends back in the day often would distinguish between a "great package" - the music & the presentation were both great - & great records that had shitty sleeves & great sleeves hiding awful records. Middle- to late-period 4AD records often got that last complaint - 23 Envelope did a smashing job with the sleeve but the record is unfuckinglistenable. Do you hear me Ultra Vivid Scene? Do you?

(That's not really my opinion. I was in character! Plus, that first Ultra Vivid Scene record, the one with the toothbrush on the cover - that's not a very good presentation for a decent pop record.)

I do miss vinyl, but not enough to actually buy it. Ack! What a pain in the ass! It's so much easier to be digital. & maybe I'm a philistine, but it sounds fine to me. But perhaps the vinyl-o-philes are winning. Which is great. There'll be more records whose sleeves I don't recognize in work-habit-destroying games like this one.

No worries! My iPod will tell me what the sleeve looks like!

Whither Trash?

If there's anything you must take away from a cursory glance at post-ideological America in the twenty-first of all possible centuries, it's this: the fucking place is a mess. What the hell went on here? Your father & I were just gone for the weekend & we come back & - I mean, just look at Wyoming. Look at it.

I am completely ripping off a Kids In The Hall sketch right now. I can't remember much of it, so I can't find it in their episode guides or on YouTube, but I know a Kids In The Hall sketch when I rip it off. & that's one of them. Maybe.

I would also like to point out that it's the second time this week I have used some sort of construction involving "the 21st century." I believe on Monday I used the phrase "the twenty-first of all human centuries" & just above I noted that this was "the twenty-first of all possible centuries." I would like you to incorporate this sort of talk in your everyday language. & not just about centuries. It helps to imagine that you're addressing a large audience. A large, nude audience.

You know what? I was totally not ripping off a Kids In The Hall sketch up there. It was an homage. Which reminds me. I once used the word "homage" in a phone call to someone who probably never called me back, but I pronounced it "hommedge." A friend who was sitting next to me corrected me when I got off the phone. He asked me where I heard the word & why I was pronouncing it wrong, & I said (which was true) that I had read it & never heard it spoken. That happened with the word "ascertain" too. & "metropolis," which I used to pronounce met-ro-pol-is, not muh-trop-o-lis. Oh shit! Maybe that dude didn't call me back because I mispronounced homage! What a judgmental fuck.

It might not be a Kids In The Hall sketch, but I'm pretty sure it is. I seem to remember Dave Foley in it. They throw a party & they trash the country & they have to clean it up before their parents get home. Who else could it be? That sketch freaked me out the first time I saw it, in a similar way to how I felt the first time I saw the Monty Python Olympic Hide & Seek. That gave me nightmares.

I wasn't writing in this blog in 2004, but since I did an imaginary radio show about trash then, you can go back & read my imaginary blog where I imaginarily discussed why I chose that theme. I can't imagine I ripped off the Kids In The Hall at that time - but I probably did.

Preface To Trash: Wait! Didn't You Do A Trash Show Before?

I got this email from the little voice that lives inside my head:

Dear fuckface,
I know you pride yourself on being "original" & "edgy" & "heterosexual," but I am writing to inform you that you are totally re-doing one of your old themes this week. Ha! This is hubris, my friend! Your pride goeth & then you fucking fall! Because you're all like "I never do the same theme except when it's a special event because I am that good a deejay & I am also a girl waah! waah!" But ha ha! You did a "trash" show back in the summer of 2004! What do you say to that?
love,
your inner voice

I wish I could tell you how kind it was of my inner voice to write me an email. Normally it just engenders in me tremendous guilt & shame that I can only forget about with massive amounts of alcohol. This may mean that our relationship is getting better.

What my little voice tells you is true, & you can see it on my website on the page of 2004 playlists. According to this page, on June 30, 2004, I did a show about "Trash." But wait! Look what it says next to it: "Imaginary Radio Show # 3"! What could that mean?

It means that, in the summer of 2004, I was not doing my radio show. The reason for it had to do with internal KOOP politics - I had offended the regime in power at the time, & they used their cronies to accuse me of stuff, which resulted in me not doing a radio show for a couple of months. In the interval, I pretended to do radio shows - if it happened now, I'd be doing podcasts - but then, I just posted playlists. I probably also burned myself some CDs to listen to, or to send to my girlfriend, who was in New York that summer. I just didn't want to get out of practice. The point is, I never really did a radio show with the theme of "trash" - I just made a playlist. Is all.

Hey! I just got another email from the little voice that lives in my head:

Dear douchebag,
You win - but only on a technicality. Next time, though, I bury you. I fucking obliterate you.
can't wait for dinner,
your inner voice

If my inner voice ever figures out how to text, I will be in all thirty-two kinds of hell.

A Punishment Of Britches

Let it never be said, in the annals of all humankind, in this choked & stinkish blog-o-sphere, where altitude & attitude trump rectitude & pulchritude, where each voice is equal in theory but unreadable in practice, where one is judged by content management systems, network & web page affiliations, ad clicks & crossover marketing potential, as we hunker down in this, the twenty-first of all human centuries, where challenges are affirmations & every diagnosis is also a prognosis, where the last of labels shall set us all free, where the digital boundaries are drawn by RAM & CPU, not by surveyor & natural landmark, where the slowly disappearing highway on the emptying American terrain reappears in our mind, unbounded, in leaps & bounds, at the outset on its last legs, fetid, fertile, fanciful, false, the whole slew of this & that not to replace those & them, but to render them neutral & neutered, to placate power while posing as populist, where... In this... Let it not be said... As we in this century are... Uh... Fuck!

I lost my train of thought.

Oh, well, why not just go listen to the "Pale Show," this past week's episode of Self Help Radio, which is available for your listerine pleasure at selfhelpradio.net. It's free of harmful ultraviolet rays, although it may have dangerous musics.

Seriously, though, I was going to say something meaningful up there. It's just, fuck! I lost my train of thought.

What To Do When Your Teeth Disagree

Have you ever had a friend talk to you at length about a book, including telling you the basic plot & also about some of the more interesting stories & characters within, usually commenting on each person or event & telling you exactly how it made them feel or what they thought it meant, & then, after this moderately tolerable dialogue, smiling at you & saying, "Do you wanna read it?" How do you tell your friend that they did for the book what most movie trailers do for movies? Which is to say, ruined it for me.

My girlfriend regularly wears clothes without pockets (I am told this is a woman thing) & sometimes uses it as an excuses to bum money off of me. This doesn't bother me, as I like to pretend I can provide something to her, & I usually have more cash on hand than she does, but she almost never remembers, once she's taken, say, a twenty, to go buy ice or something, she never remembers to bring me the change. Here's my worry: if she has no pockets, where is my change?

I am now an avid flosser. This shouldn't surprise you. But there was a time - not very long ago, I will shamefully admit - that flossing seemed incorrect to me for one reason: I wasn't really convinced there ought to be spaces in between teeth. Hear me out. It struck me that perhaps our teeth should be close enough together that even a something threadlike couldn't get between them - & worse yet, that if you tried to get something between them, you'd crack the teeth. I can't think what disabused me of that notion. Oh, yeah. Regular flossing.

While listening to lots of Bill Hicks trying to find a bit he did about how pale he is (for this week's show, & no, I didn't find it on any of his recorded released stuff, so I suppose it's from a videotape or television special), I was struck by how little I laughed. I did think it was excruciatingly funny, but I've listened to the records so much that I don't laugh any more - I anticipate the humor. Much like the way when I listen to stuff that I've been listening to my entire life I now listen to the instruments more - say, the bass, if I've never paid any attention to it - I found myself listening to the audience. Sometimes you can even make out conversations. The reason I mention this is not only to segue to talking about this week's show but also to note that I don't have the same experience with comedy on television or film - Monty Python or Marx Brothers. Just recorded comedy.

Speaking of things you might not think are funny, the new show is being prepared this afternoon. Look for it tomorrow afternoon. Listen to it Sunday afternoon. Reflect on it Monday afternoon. Tell your friends about itTuesday afternoon. Call in sick to work so you can be drunk Wednesday afternoon. Who care what you do Thursday afternoon? I'll be recording another podcast next Friday afternoon. Let's continue in this vein. For ever.

I'm Sometimes A Punk

Though I don't have a mohawk. Nor do I know any Mohawks. I might ask them if they like punk rock music.

I like a lot of it, but of course not all of it. Some of the stuff that I like that I think of as punk is probably not punk, & lots of the stuff that is thought of as punk I can't really stand. What sort of punk do I like? I'm glad I'm pretending that you ask.

You can have a listen to a mix I sort of made for my nephew's college graduation party (it's edited) last month here on the Self Help Radio Extra page. It's without any interruption & it's about seventy-four minutes long.

No mohawk required! From me to you! Now, if you're excuse me, I'm going to daydream & listen to Bill Moyers talk.

Whither A Show About Paleness?

Is paleness even a word?

Ack! I am late for today's blog entry! I have no compelling explanations! I don't need to defend myself to you! You got more explaining to do than me! Judge not lest ye be judged!

Yeah, it's a weird idea, a show about a lack of color. I confess there aren't a lot of songs about that. There are more songs about pale things. So it'll mainly be a show about pale things, more than paleness. Sue me. It's just a podcast.

I myself am quite pale. Always have been. Some people's skin ripens like fruit in the sun & stays golden over the summer. I resort to a zombie-esque hue mere moments after non-sunburn exposure. Here's a funny story: I went to a dermatologist a while back to get a third eye removed (long story) & the dermatologist wanted to look at my back which, truth be told, is as white as vanilla ice cream. Not french vanilla - I'm talking soft serve vanilla. Anyway, she said, "You've got some sun damaged back here." She meant freckles. That's a bad way to talk about freckles. Freckles may be caused by sun damage, but it's evil to take something as adorable as freckles & make them seem evil. I won't have it.

Plus, she wouldn't remove the third eye. Referred me to an evil optometrist. Long story.

The experience of the pale is certainly one we shall explore. Or else I will say "Ack!" once more, & collapse on the floor.

Preface To The Pale Show: Ode On A Plastic Spoon

Hey! Who put this ode on this plastic spoon? I was gonna use this spoon! Do you know how hard it is to get ode off a plastic spoon? Cleaners can melt the freakin' plastic! You! Yeah, you, with the beret! Are you the dirty dog poet who put this ode on my plastic spoon? What the fuck? Do I go over to your house & write a limerick on your butter knife? Hanh? Do I wander by your work & write a sestina on your spork? Oh Christ, look, you've got me rhyming now. Just get away from me! & don't mess with my non-biodegradable cutlery ever again!

This particular Self Help Radio blog entry was supposed to be enjoyed - prepared just for you - with a small cup of some sweet pale yogurt. The place was set & you were to come here, make yourself comfortable, & read an amusing preface to a show about a lack of color while eating something that not only lacks color, but also taste. All prepared for you by Self Help Radio. Because Self Help Radio wants to be hospitable.

Instead, some itinerant wannabe bard stops by, sees something that no sane person could possibly see in a plastic spoon sitting next to the yogurt, & just can't help WRITING AN ODE on the plastic spoon. That's all thirteen kinds of crazy! Hey! You should be ashamed of yourself!

What the...? Oh great. Well, the good news is, the ode is gone. The bad news is, so is the yogurt. Yes, the poet ate his ode with the food. He literally ate his own words. Har har. He thinks he's so clever.

Get out of here! I gotta blog to write! Stupid poets!

Braise, Whimper & Fold

One more story about Bill before too long:

Bill never met a musical instrument he didn't want to put his mouth on. He could play them all tolerably well, if your definition of "tolerable" is the same definition John Ashcroft uses for testicular electrocution at Gitmo. Man I hated when he picked up an oboe - for example - & just started tooting on it. You did not want to go to any sort of store with him, nor church, but that was because he loved Satan.

How I found myself in a dried goods store last weekend I am not sure. I didn't even know there were such entities as "dried goods stores" outside of those infernal Hobbit books. Blast them! Yet there Bill & I stood, chewing on gunpowder & talking about tamarind when, out of nowhere he said, "I hear someone calling my name!"

You have to have regular responses to Bill, otherwise you won't make much sense, but my regular response to him was to the exclamation, "I hear [Jesus/God/The Virgin Mary/Albert Einstein] calling my name!" I had never heard him be vague. I listened, too. I heard it!

"Songs about me!" said Bill. It was true. The lunatic dried good store owner with the painted-on hard-on was playing songs about Bill. Bill was apoplectic. He accused the shopkeeper of adding cayenne pepper to the no-MSG sugar cane. But I told him, "Bill, that fellow isn't playing songs about you. He's listening to a radio show playing songs about you!"

It was true! The man behind the counter had gone to selfhelpradio.net & downloaded this week's show. Bill was astonished. He couldn't leave. He didn't leave.

For all I know, he's there still.

Make This Blog Your Only Best Blog!

Now I know for a fact that literally a couple or more people read the Self Help Radio blog with awesome regularity. (Far more than listen to my podcasts!) (Hey, could my blog readers think the podcast is simply me reading the blog? Well, it's not!) But I would love if maybe thousands more would read it. (I'd love it more, though, if thousands listened to Self Help Radio. That's problematic, though - the show really isn't all that good.)

I absorbed with interest the Wired article Secrets of the 7 Basic Blog Posts & realized that I fail on most accounts. I hereby promise to follow these secrets until at least ten people read this blog every day. Then I'll really pump up the volume.

Here, in case you don't want to read the linked article above, is a summary of the seven points:

1. Be upset!
It's really hard to be so angry when I'm mainly confused. I'll try, though. Oh! That Hillary!
Does that work? Hanh?

2. Buy a thing!
I encourage you to buy into my dreams of independent media. But you can't find that in stores. Rats. Maybe I should try to find something to support - maybe a website to help me & my friends after all the Christians disappear?

3. Animals are cute!
Right. I must stop posting pictures of animals that have recently died.

4. People are dumb!
Right. That's why they're not listening to Self Help Radio.

5. Something I like, only different!
Oh, I got this down. That's what Self Help Radio is!

6. Weird science!
Wouldn't you rather see a sunset on Mars? I thought so.

7. Me, the blogger!
Whew, I got this one cold.

In any event, I promise to remember you all when I get too big for the blogsosphere & have to get ghost writers to write these posts. Let's circle our wagons now & enjoy our own intimate relationship before it gets ruined by the paparazzi & Entertainment Tonight.

Your task: tomorrow, in the afternoon, visit selfhelpradio.net & listen to a show about people named Bill. You do NOT have to be named Bill, or William, or Billy, or Will, etc., to enjoy the show. But you'll like it more. I betcha.

Yet Lagged

Our cheap little motel room in Durham sat right above the window where late-night guests (who talk loud because they're talking to hotel clerks behind a plexiglass divider, despite the fact that they could be heard all through the whole motor court) got rooms - or didn't get rooms, as the case may be. One fellow walked back & forth to his car muttering about "eight lousy bucks" until he finally relented (paying with a credit card!), & another yelled on a cell phone about the cost then walked over to another nearby motel, as if the person on the other line was William Shatner trying to get him a better deal. I heard all this over the weird watery gurgle of the air conditioner because I am prone to listen to the night as I sleep.

I went out last night to find the late-night clerk playing with a radio-operated car in the parking lot, & that same fellow freaked me out when we were coming home that evening because he was apparently escorting some visitor to a room a few doors down from ours. They went in, they came out, the visitor went away. You bet I thought it was drugs!

But Magda & I drove through the blackness of the Durham highway to the airport at four this morning &, a little over fourteen hours later, I am back at home in my lovely little house feeling it had been nothing more than a dream. A dream with trees. During the three days we were in Durham, I struggled to get some sense of where everything was - you know that weird feeling when you see a street that you know you were on some part of, but it seems to you that this one is perpendicular to the one you were on earlier - I consulted a map afterwards to show up my failed human sensors - & I wonder now if it'll come back to me when next I'm there. Durham is rather small, you know. & in a forest. Forests are made to be lost in.

Big decisions were made there but I woke up from a nap just now & want to return to some more sleeping while my dogs & cats are still a little sluggish from sleep too. Plus there's a storm brewing! I'm sure I'll talk more about things of overdramatic import at another time. I have a postscript for this which ties it to this week's Self Help Radio: the night clerk? His name was Billy!*

* I don't really know if this is true. But it seemed a nice ending for an otherwise meaningless ramble.

Whither Bill?

Dispatch from Durham:

My friend Bill (or Billy, when he's drunk; or William, when he's in court; or Wilhelm, when he's drunk in court in Germany; but never Will) doesn't really exist. He is a fingerprint of my imagination. He lives on the peripheries, on the side of our mind where nothing is ever put straight, as the poet said. Yet he is insistent! & much like the monkeys that paint the clothes that we wear when the weather is about to get worse, I can't not listen to it. Not even with ear muffs & cotton candy breath.

Did you know you can buy fireworks in supermarkets in Durham? I don't know if they're good fireworks, but I can find out. I don't believe they'll let me take them home, though. "They" meaning "supermarkets in Durham."

Bill doesn't believe in fireworks that aren't generated by romance. Nor Hollywood. Nor his latest Hollywood romance. But he does understand that he possesses a naive curiosity which, as the poet says, forces two strangers to talk, & so he would like to be forced to talk to the weird people who, he believes because I told him, have written songs about him. I said I would gather them. I would buy some new shoes. I would gather the songs around the shoes. & I would let him in!

Did you know it's not legal to fire fireworks off outside the door to your second story motel room at the so-called traffic on I-85? Some nice police officers gave me a stern talking-to. They're very butch in North Carolina.

Bill is nearly always sober. Me not so much. Self Help Radio is a very serious thing & it helps out all manner of folks, especially, this week, those called "Bill." I hope my friend Bill, even though he does not exist, can appreciate that.

I hope you, even though you probably don't exist, can understand that.

Preface To Bill: What? No blog today?

Yeah, been hanging out in Durham all day, with lemurs mostly, & nowhere near a computer. Sorry. Maybe more tomorrow?

Also, I didn't meet one person named Bill today.

& Then There's North Carolina...

Yes, sports fans, I'll be spending three of the seven days of this week - or is it four? - I think the fourth will be spent getting through airports - in the area of North Carolina where I'll be living in two short months. So the posts may be shorter, though no pithier, & certainly not any more interesting than normal. But if I take pictures of anything astonishing, I might just share them with you.

No, it's early but it's still Monday so I must be the first to tell you that this past week's podcast, appropriately or inappropriately about beauty pageants, is now available where you always knew it would be at selfhelpradio.net. It features ninety minutes of songs, discussion, facts & lies about contests for beauty. How could you not want to listen to it? Oh come on!

Maybe you'll hear from me sooner than later - but if not, look for me in the "triangle" area of North Carolina. I'm sure you'll know me by sight. I'll be the one who is embarrassed saying the name "Carrboro."

Also, this week's show is about people named Bill. William. Billy. Wilhelm. Willy. Etc. So if you want to tell me a story about your favorite Bill, send me an email & I'll dedicate a song to them. You can encourage those haters who don't listen to Self Help Radio to write in, too. Because! The show will not just be about a particular Bill. It's about all Bills. Whomever they may be. It's true!

The Last Repetitive Stress Injury Ever

I am proud at the beginning of this 2008-2009 pageant season to announce that, despite comments from critics calling it "sexist," "degrading," "unappealing" & "imaginary," Miss Self Help Radio 2009 is accepting entries! Yes, before I & the show depart for the comforting wilds of Durham, North Carolina, we'll have one last Miss Self Help Radio pageant in Austin, Texas.

Rules are the same as always: contestants must have listened to at least ten (10) Self Help Radio shows during the previous year. Packets for each show will be handed out. A score of 60% or better will need to be achieved or the contestant is liable to be condescended to. Contestants must also be of the relatively female persuasion or otherwise not object to being called "Miss." The entry fee will be waived for most everyone who makes a fuss. No one under eighteen is allowed to enter, & don't blame me, blame the sponsors of the Junior Miss Self Help Radio contest, who refused to let me drink while I was judging. Christ! It's not like I was giving it to the kids!

More details on the contest can be found on tomorrow's podcast of Self Help Radio, available some time in the mid-afternoon at selfhelpradio.net. Do listen for lots of songs about beauty pageants & their contestants as well as an interview with someone who knows more than I do about less than it seems.

The Miss Self Help Radio Pageant is sponsored, as always, by Bloat. Bloat, since 1972, America's original & only.

At The End Of May, A Mix Is Born

Hey! That's right! I managed despite my grief to put together a mix for you what I call "Self Help Radio Extra"! You can find it for downloading on the Self Help Radio Extra page. Where it always is. Once a month.

I'll try to make the next one in a more timely fashion. I am a bit of a procrastinator. Once a month shouldn't mean "at the end of every month." Perhaps I should do two a month. It would keep me on my toes.

You can see what's on this uninterrupted seventy-six minute mix (suitable for burning onto a CD & then crushing under a stiletto heel) by visiting the Self Help Radio Extra page. Do have a listen. I enjoy the putting together of music, although I fear I am not very good at it.

Have fun!

Whither Beauty Pageants?

Confession time: I've never sat through any televised (or live) beauty pageant, & that includes ones that I might have been present for. I have seen a few movies about them - "Little Miss Sunshine" probably being the best - how many movies have been made about them, you might wonder - well, here's a list - but in general, I haven't had a whole lot of interest in what seemed a weirdly staged - lots of standing around for the "contestants" - & mostly formal exercise in shallowness.

I probably conceived of the notion of the show around the time the video for the Miss Teen USA pageant started making the rounds - you know, this one - because it most likely started a process in my brain that could have gone something like this:

1) This is sad. She's nervous but she's also kinda stupid.
2) It's also sad that people think this is funny.
3) I guess people think it's funny because they probably hate the idea of a competition for "the prettiest."
4) It's natural to want to think the most generically beautiful people are the dumbest.
5) That sure is a big stage she's standing on.
6) If it's Miss Teen USA, does that mean there are fifty contestants?
7) Maybe more, with Guam & Puerto Rico & Iraq & all our other provinces?
8) This is a weird idea.
9) I bet beauty contests started in America.
10) Do you think there are a lot of songs about beauty contests?

That all happened within a few seconds, most likely while I was drunk, & I probably created a folder on my computer & noticed it some time later. Because chances are I put the folder not in the place where I keep show ideas (that would be a folder called "show_ideas"), but in something completely irrelevant, like "taxes" or "embarrassing photographs of monkeys" or "recipes that are mainly excuses for eating lots of cheese."

Now the chickens have come home to roost. But they are beauty chickens.

Preface To Beauty Pageant: What Horrible Memories This Show Will Bring Back

I actually thought instead of trying to be funny & talking about the show today, I'd post some more pictures of Buster. I hope you don't mind.

I have tried to arrange them like so: Buster alone, a snap of Buster & Blue Boy, then pictures of Buster with Beatrice & with Bolan. They're not chronological. They're just some of the few snapshots I & Magda, neither of whom are really picture takers, have collected over the years.

Buster

I lost a dear friend, my child, on Friday. My cat Buster, at the very young feline age of ten, died very suddenly from a viral infection called FIP. You can read about it at the Wikipedia link there. It was treacherous & awful & my girlfriend Magda & I did everything in our power to try to help him. But it came too fast & now he's no longer with us. It's been a horrible weekend, with feelings of anger & regret, torturous dreams & sad awakenings, & of course the fear of it happening to our other two cats. Mostly, though, I miss him being around. I loved him so.

I adopted Buster when he was a kitten about ten years ago. He was part of the litter of a cat that lived around my sister's house in Garland. He would probably have been a feral cat & lived only a few years (if that) had I not fallen in love with his gray tabbiness & that round, stone face. I brought him back to Austin & named him Buster, after Buster Keaton, someone else I love dearly. (Buster Kitten, get it?) I brought him home to be with me & my cat Blue Boy, who had feline leukemia. I don't know why I decided to adopt him - there were great fears that he could contract Blue Boy's disease - but I brought him into my life thoughtlessly, because he was affectionate in a bull-headed, oafish way, the opposite of Blue Boy's delicate grace.

Buster had a singular charm as a kitten - a leaky anus. Many a guest would find him on their lap & he'd leave them a small round surprise when he got up. He outgrew that (thank god) but there were several weeks there where I was cleaning up little brown rings on the carpet every damn day. He also discovered my roommate's weird collection of plastic bags & we found out soon enough by following the overpowering smell that he liked to urinate in plastic bags. Buster was a charmer.

Blue Boy was in good health that summer, but as he deteriorated, I had to separate him & Buster. The last month of Blue Boy's life, I kept Buster in a different room, & now, although I have been guilty about it for a long time, I do treasure the memory of the hour or hours I spent in that room to feed Buster & play with him & try to make up for confining him while Blue Boy was starting to fade. Buster was young & loved to fight & steal food - Blue Boy was dying.

Blue Boy died at a weird time in my life. I had changed focus at work, I had left KVRX, & I was about to move from the place where I had lived for almost six years - a place I lived in longer than any other place in my life. I had Buster tested again for feline leukemia a month or so after Blue Boy's death, but despite all the grooming & fighting & sharing (& stealing) of food, he didn't have the disease. I was very grateful - I wanted Buster to be with me for a long, long time.

I moved into a smaller place that December, & it was just Buster & me. I remember he would inexplicably hide from me, & I worried he had sneaked out of the screen door & out to the busy street nearby. I also remember, in those smoking days, in those smoking in the house days, I'd have the door open to the night & just be staring out into the backyard & Buster & I would marvel at the giant moths which would bat upon against the porch light. Buster was a very expressive cat, & he had a lot of things to say to anything outside, be it another cat, a bird, an insect, or a person, all through his life. He would often wake me up with shrieks at passing cats. As annoyed as I always was, it would be like beautiful music to hear it now.

I have one very strong memory of that time. The first time I tried e, I was alone at home, & he came up to me, purring, & I started petting him. It must've last a half-hour, the sensation of his fur was astonishing. It was a mutually beneficial heavy petting session on drugs. Subsequent times on e after that always included some touch-time with the kittens. Buster's fur was always best of all.

That summer I adopted another kitten, named Beatrice, & that was when Buster came into his own. For all his oafishness, for all his slight slowness of mind (I think now he wasn't so much stupid as deliberate, & he stolidly kept his own pace), he was a great big brother. Beatrice was (& is) a peevish cat, skittish & quick to defense, but Buster impressed me with his patience, his love, his inexplicable tolerance & care of this obviously irrational little white girl cat. He & Beatrice were closer than I was ever able to be to either of them, & Beatrice has let virtually no one but him & me touch her her entire life. The two of them wouldn't share the same space often, but they did come together & groom one another, & Buster hardly ever was at the claw end of one of Beatrice's hissy fits. When he was, though, he understood. He raised her!

I can't imagine how she misses him - but she surely must.

When Magda & I got together, she brought a dog into our life, & Buster made it perfectly clear that he ran the house. George the beagle was followed by Ringo the beagle who was followed by many fostered dogs (over ten, who rarely stayed longer than a month) & finally by Winston, & while there have been occasions when they've gone all doggie & chased Beatrice way, I have the image in my head of three hungry hounds wanting desperately to get into the kitchen to eat their dinner but whining instead because this tiny tabby - weighing at most twelve pounds - was standing in their way. Buster would often just mosey up to one of them - for some reason, Ringo particularly interested him - & swat him with a quick ninja cat paw. Just to make sure everyone his role was understood.

With a woman living with us, Buster revealed another endearing trait - he liked women's shoes. Not wearing them (that would have been freaky), but what Magda has called "making love" with them. If they were stranger's shoes, even better. It was always slightly embarrassing to see Buster roll himself over a shoe, like watching a dog hump a pillow.

Two years ago Magda brought home a black cat we call Bolan & Buster also raised him. They were fast friends, & Buster was just as patient with this child as he was with Beatrice, & this child grew to be twice his size.

Buster accepted all the changes because he was Buster. A more centered cat I have yet to meet. He loved food, he loved to sit in the window & watch the world go by, he loved to be next to humans (but not in their lap - maybe being shoved away because he was leaving poo stains conditioned him as a kit), he loved to be petted, &, as he got older, he loved to drool. Buster had a very sensitive head - rubbing him the wrong way always caused him to rattle his head - so if you were petting him, & if he started to drool, you had to be extra careful about scratching the head the wrong way, or else he'd bathe you in his drooly happiness.

It's ridiculous all the ridiculous things you miss when your pet's gone.

Buster was the patriarch of this house. We'd find him in the oddest places - on top of things or under things or in things like drawers - & we had no idea how he got there. He knew the place like no one else. Him being gone is not only like a part of me being gone - like a heart attack kills a part of your heart, the death of Buster has killed a part of what makes me me, what makes me love - but also like something's been stolen from this place, like some part of it has disappeared & it seems incomplete. This house is broken & can't be fixed any more.

So this motherfucking virus came & Buster stopped eating & despite everything - despite Magda reading about European treatments, our friendly neighbor forcing him (because we couldn't, we always felt we were hurting) to take steroids & antivirals & interferon, arguments with the vet about a feeding tube (we felt he might be able to live with the virus if we kept his weight up) - despite all our attempts to feed him all kinds of crazy meats & cat treats - despite long conversations I had with him, as he got more shaky & his meows became strained & his purr sounded like it had pitch-shifted, these long discussions we had with me telling him how much he meant to us & how he was supposed to live much longer - it just happened so fucking fast! - he succumbed to that bastard virus & now he's gone.

It's Memorial Day & this is also blog entry four hundred, & it certainly wasn't planned, but I am glad I have a place & time to honor Buster with some small remembrances. There's a poem Kinky Friedman quotes when he talks about the death of his cat which I thought about when Blue Boy died, & I think about now, nearly nine years later: "We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle..." Kinky Friedman adds, "People may surprise you with unexpected kindness. Dogs have a depth of loyalty that we often seem unworthy of. But the love of a cat is a blessing, a privilege in this world."

I probably didn't deserve Buster's love, but I am glad I was able to know him & love him & let him live a lot longer on this planet than he would have if he had been feral. I'm glad he was able to interact with so many people & be a big brother to Beatrice & Bolan. & I'm glad he got to be the first cat to soil so many clean new litter boxes. & I'm glad he got to live in more than one place, to escape outside occasionally, to eat lots of really stinky food, to play with & sometimes kill lots of bugs, to be alive, in my life, asleep next to me on the bed at night, drooling on me in happiness, reminding me sometimes hours before when it was time to eat.

I love you & miss you Buster. If there's a place beautiful pets go when they die, I'll visit you when I have left this world. If there's not, then I just want to thank you for sharing your life with me. It was a blessing & a privilege & as long as I'm able, I'll never forget how you honored me with your life.

Hypnotic Weekend

I don't usually write on this blog on the weekend, but you don't usually read it at all, so we're both being unusual. What else can we do? Gasoline costs too much to drink all day long! Might as well read blogs!

Know what else you can do? You can listen to this week's Self Help Radio podcast, which is all about hypnosis. Not only are there fancy dan songs about hypnosis but also the host & founder of Self Help Radio, Carlos Mencia, gets hypnotized on the air! Oh wait, Mr Mencia is not hosting this week. Someone named Gary is.

In any event, the show is available like it always is at selfhelpradio.net. Listen to it all weekend long. It may help you quit smoking. Or even start smoking.

I also wanted to write today because this is my 399th post to the blog, & I have a special memorial to write about for my 400th post. It turns out that I have to memorialize a loved one on Memorial Day. Weird sadnesses have conspired with mild triumphs to make it really a Memorial Day. See you then.

Lonesomer Friday

A famous hypnotist walks into a bar. A not-so-famous hypnotist walks into a bar. A dude with those weird x-ray glasses with the hypno wheel on them which don't really work walks into a bar. A bar is open, a bar is closed.

More & more, life seems to contain more & more of stuff which I apparently said, felt & did, but to which I have increasingly less access. More than hypnotism, I think I'd like to have someone pump energy into my hypothalamus like they did on a recent episode of House. Whether it works on not, who know, but now I will be expecting to have lucid dreams/memories in high definition color.

Tomorrow I will have a new podcast for you - & this one will be very good I hope you know - & also rather silly - so please look around to find it & enjoy it on your Memorial Day weekend. Days off are good for listening to weirdoes & their radio shows. I would do it if I knew some weirdoes on the radio. Where have they gone I wonder? All the weirdoes?

You know where one of them is, at least! Have a good weekend!

Game Is The Name Of The Lame

I really enjoy making the Self Help Radio Extra mixes. If I didn't enjoy hunting down music for the Self Help Radio themes, I might just make weekly mixes. As it stands, I try to make time to make the best mixes, but even leaving the radio station that seemed to take up half my life hasn't really freed up my time - I find other things to do.

I wanted to have a new Extra mix up today, but instead I've been listening to records on how to hypnotize yourself for the next podcast. So I'll try to have the mix up this time next week. I'm lame. I'm really lame.

Speaking of, no one's very excited about my upcoming four hundredth post on this blog. One person sent me a link to a blog that was started around the same time as this one that has over a thousand posts. Imagine! Granted, the posts tend to be more links & they're smaller. Imagine! Also, they have nothing to do with a radio show/podcast the blogger does. Imagine! It also has pitchers of nekkid wimmen. Imagine! Should I find some wimmen for post four hundred & take pitchers of them nekkid? I might get more hits. I might lose the missus. Wow that's a lame pun. Especially since I'm not married. Also, I have no pitchers of wimmen anywhere, & none of those (I'll presume) have any nekkidness involved. Imagine!

Then I'm not going to make a big deal about the four hundredth post. What, am I crazy? 400 posts! That's amazing!

Wow, I'm lame. But this week's show will rock!

Whither Hypnosis?

I know what you're thinking. I'm going to hypnotize you & make you act like a chicken. Or worse, I'm going to make you act like a naked chicken. Or worst, I'm going to act like a naked chicken while you're hypnotized. Nothing could be farther from the truth! I want to hypnotize you to help you quit smoking. Eating too much. Wetting your bed. Biting your nails. Masturbating. Believing in God. Popping pills. Short-changing the customers. Wrestling with your demons. Mistaking sex for love. Running for office. Randomizing. Stuff like that.

You don't have to be afraid! Here, go visit this vaguely mystical-looking website to read some common myths of hypnosis. There! Doesn't that make you feel better? Hey, if a place called "deeptrancenow.com" says hypnosis is all right, it must be all right!

Listen, tootsie pop, it's just a radio show featuring songs & information about hypnosis. It's not scary! It's an adventure! I have spent the last seventy-two hours implanting auto-suggestions in-between the more comforting notes of all the peppiest songs I'll play on this week's Self Help Radio. But that's nothing compared to the subliminal messages in your average episode of "60 Minutes." & that doesn't include the truly terrifying pharmaceutical ads. I stress again: these messages are for your self-improvement, not for your embarrassment. They may make me laugh, but they're not a laughing matter. I know that. You know I know that.

You are feeling very sleepy. It must be the light of the computer monitor. It makes me tired, too. Please don't read any websites right now about politics. Read instead some calming stories about zombies. Zombies rule! But they're not hypnotized, & neither are you.

When I snap my fingers, you'll wake up & feel refreshed. Your head will be lighter & so will your wallet. Follow the lights on the floor to the door & exit onto the street going left.

Preface To Hypnosis: I Can't Hypnotize But I Can Mesmerize

Messages left in tiny boxes in front of houses in my neighborhood (which are not, by the way, for me) speak of cynicism & gloom: they warn of dissolving marriages, shockingly lowered values on recently-appraised homes, noisier dogs sneaked in during the night, a party which may cause inconvenience come Thursday. Was there ever a time when these notices spoke of happy things, like births, or career advancement, or just general good news? Who knows - &, again, I'm not supposed to be reading them.

If one walks a straight line from the edge of the driveway to the edge of the curb where one stands to wait for the bus, one naturally must walk through houses, back yards, flower beds, storage sheds, over cars & fences, past angry home owners with guns & sharp tongues, into & out of a few businesses, across one busy street & at least two or three not-so-busy ones. This is true about all the nearby bus stops, not just the one I take to get to work every day. Even the bus stops that lead away from my work. There is no straight line away from my house to any bus stop.

That makes me very, very nervous. Anxiety is an old friend, but as I get older, I can imagine the nerves fraying, like sleeves or tassels, until they're just dangling, fraught, always in motion. It's no wonder I sneak glances into the little boxes which hold the messages for others in the neighborhood - for the uptight effeminate fellow & his perfumed dog; for the happy couple with the motorized, air-conditioned stroller for their new sprog; for the grumpy old conservative & his solid gold walker, slowly making his day-long trip up the block & back; for even the visitors, solicitors or stalkers, who pretend they're part of this neighborhood & who everyone else pretends are a part of this neighborhood.

I couldn't tell you why I am disconnected in this way. I smile, sometimes I wave, but the people who live around me often turn off their lights & close up their trees when I pass. I cannot say if it's just that they dislike me or if I committed some kind of offense. I want to say to them, "But I bought the house! I do not rent! I do not lease! I mow my own lawn & put up my own Christmas lights! Look! Look! It's my name on the mail! It's my name on the magazines!" But what good would that do? Surely those who reject me have closed their ears like their minds & they can't hear a word I say. Just the sound of my footsteps trailing into the loneliness of my home.

The noise you hear is the neighborhood sharpening its teeth. The noise you don't hear is my television turning off as I look out my picture window & fall asleep staring into the street. The night comes, the night goes. All manner of things happen, usually, & usually you don't need to pay attention. The power goes off & the houses empty as we all look to see if it's a community event, & not something ridiculous like someone forgetting to pay their bills. We ask the questions, we stand around, we stare at each other's lawns, cars, for sale signs, political candidate signs, dying trees, edged shrubs, boxes of recycling. Then the power comes on again. We go back inside.

Something starts all over again. Something never ended. Something never began.

Another Non-Random Show Notification On Your Otherwise Spotless Corkboard

Posted this weekend: Self Help Radio show number - er - I mean Jesus I don't know what frickin' number show it is - it's the show about lemons. It's available where you normally find Self Help Radio podcasts & archived versions of the old radio show: both in my head & at selfhelpradio.net.

I want to add that you can certainly keep those suggestions coming about what I should do special for my 400th post on this blog. "Nude photos of my cats" is certainly a hilarious option, especially since they're perverts, but they have their own blog so you can already see them. "Free access to this blog for life" seemed a little smart-alecky until I realized someone could make the argument that "free access" means I have to pay their ISP bills. Fat chance!

But I do believe the four hundredth post should be exciting, special, awesome, tacky, windswept, consumptive, cricket & rad, so I am still taking suggestions. Number 400 (wow, like the hit film!) should break some time next week. I suggest you plan your parties now!

But don't forget the point of today's notice: a show about lemons at selfhelpradio.net! Have some with your afternoon tea!

A Twist Of Lemon

Tomorrow! Probably in the middle of the day! Or maybe sooner! But maybe later! The Self Help Radio podcast series continues with a lemony show all about lemons! It'll be tart & tangy, sour & sweet! It can clean your hair & your furniture! It will go good with beverages & garnish your entree! Wow! What the hell! That's one great radio show!

Now all I have to do is put it together. I wish it was as easy as writing about it. Damn it.

Pay attention to selfhelpradio.net tomorrow (Saturday) to see when I post the show, or write an email to this email address to ask me to notify you when it's posted.

Seriously, I gotta start working on that show. Why am I wasting my time on a blog? Jeez.

That Boy Hermes

According to the list of things which is collected for things in the thing-like interface which controls this blogging device thing, I am rapidly approaching my four-hundredth blog entry. (Well, rapidly. I mean, it's less than ten entries off, so it'll happen in like two weeks or something.) (It's certainly as rapid as any blogging I do I suppose.) (Thing.) I ask you, loyal readers of other blogs than this, what should be the celebration that we celebrate for the four-hundredth Self Help Radio blog? Here are some choices sent in by Mrs. Mull's second-grand class, Doonesburg, Ohio:

1) Photos of Gary being kicked in the head! (submitted several times)
2) Free trip to Planet Zed!
3) Tell us a story, tell us a story!
4) More money for lunch please. I am hungry.
5) A special song written for all the famous things that are four hundred!
6) Two cats for every orphan!
7) A rhyming dictionary for the lucky winner!
8) Three or more tours of duty in Iraq starting this summer!
9) A haircut & a shave!
10) Tacky joke gift vetted by your drunk uncle!

What else? What could it be? What shall we do? Wherever shall we go? Could there should there be a contest? Should there would there be a prize? Ought there be a law? Might there be a drawing (of names), or a drawing (of famous people in funny caricature)? I can't decide. You have to decide! Four hundred is a big number. Help me figure out what should happen when blog post number four hundred happens!

Thing.

Whither Lemons?

A fan of lemons was telling me just the other day, "There's that old song, you know, about how the interior of the lemon isn't very good to eat, & I was always puzzled by this. I always ate lemons like other kids at oranges, or even grapefruit. I'd scoop the pulp out & just eat. It never occurred to me that it wasn't supposed to be edible. So I continue eating the flesh - for lack of a better word - of lemons to this very day. You may not believe me but it's true.

"What's weirder," he continued, "is that I can't do the same with limes. I can't eat a section of a lime in the same way that I can basically 'eat up' a lemon. It doesn't taste good enough & the consistency, the texture of the lime isn't the same. Isn't that just too odd? Because you can set a lemon & a lime side-by-side & even cut them in half, & they look like basically the same fruit, only colored differently. But they are very, very different. They are - at least to my taste buds - polar opposites.

"I can also tell you," said the fan of lemons, "that I could chew on a lemon rind - did you know they also call it a 'zest'? - I could chew on a lemon zest in the same way other kids chewed gum. To me, there was nothing better, after consuming the inside of a lemon, spitting its seeds out, wiping the sticky sour juice from my face - nothing better than gnawing off a piece of lemon zest & spending the rest of the day just chew, chew, chewing it. Other children, with their Wrigley's & their Fruit Stripe & they're Double Bubble, they'd complain of losing flavor & having to keep sticking new pieces of gum in their mouths, but not me. A little lemon rind went a long way."

"I wish I could tell you," he said with a sigh, "why I am so obsessed with lemons. There's probably a moment - or moments, really, felicitous, random moments when I was young - when lemons were the only thing around to eat, & I ate them. Ate them up. & my love of lemons continues undeterred to this day. I love lemon tea, lemon-flavored soft drinks, lemon garnishes, lemon juice dripped on frying foods, lemonade of course, lemon added to any alcohol, lemon candies, lemon, lemon, lemon! The taste of lemons. It overwhelms me & is the one thing on this planet that makes me completely, totally happy."

"Well," I said, "that's good news, because my radio show, Self Help Radio, this week features nothing but talk & music about lemons!"

"Hey," said the fan of lemons, "I didn't know you did a radio show."

Preface To Lemons: I'd Rather Talk About Toast

Don't get me wrong. I'm very excited about this week's show, for which I am receiving absolutely no money from the Texas Citrus Exchange. No money, nor any of their delicious fruit, certainly not sent in lovely gift baskets directly to my door for any consideration whatsoever. Oh delicious citrus! Your sourness is the sweetest thing in my life!

Recently, though, I've begun to question the very nature of fruit. It's so, well, fruity. Can that be a good thing? Some fruitarians think that, but can we truly trust anyone who has so willfully given up cheese? I think not.

One struggles to find one's way in the shopping cart of life, & I have been a vegetarian since way before you thought I was cool, but the questions with which one grapples can be philosophical finger traps - such as this one: why worry about lemons, when all you can think about is toast?

It's true! Why does toast haunt me so? Since our toaster died, I have been forced to make toast in a "toaster oven." The toast comes out disappointed & rueful. The butter will not melt, it feels the toast's shame. I had to put this morning's toast out of its misery by throwing it into a mob of hungry beagles! What sort of death is that for bread? For toast? I may as well have shoved it up the assholes of pigeons in the park!

One doesn't have the same moral & ethical quandaries with fruit, even with citrus, whose reputation among fruits is that of scoundrels & knaves. At the very least douchebags. Fruits have nothing on toast! But you can put fruit on toast! Preferably sliced thin. If you must.

I sing a dirge of toast lost today. The citrus fruits would weep acrid tears, if weep they could, if they hadn't already been crushed into juice. Mmm, juice. Salud!

From Dynamite To Los Angeles

Suddenly I am regretting not beginning all of my blog entries with a salutation. What a dreadful miscalculation! Now my blog has no personality! It's just like me!

Followers of the stomach flu may note with sadness that I am more or less back to my usual state of health which, frankly, for most people is a bit on the sickly side. I managed to fly to Los Angeles & attend my girlfriend's sister's wedding, but couldn't take advantage of the free booze & was back in Austin before Spielberg knew I was there. He & I are just NOT on speaking terms.

Before I left Saturday morning, though, I finished the first post-radio show podcast, which is still an episode of Self Help Radio, warts & all, & is available for your listening pleasure at the regular place, cnn.com. No, that's not right. & no, Wolf Blitzer & I are also NOT on speaking terms. A situation room without a self-destruct button?! What the fuck was he thinking?

The Self Help Radio show about dynamite is available at (of course) selfhelpradio.net. Do go listen. You may be the only person who does!

One Dynamite Podcast!

The Self Help Radio non-radio pro-podcast revolution begins in just a little time, my friends. Oh yes! As we speak, smelly beagles of all ages are sniffing the butts of all kind of music - all about the subject "dynamite" - which will be gathered tenderly, like flowers or cigarette butts, & turned into a deliciously explosive podcast you'll want to tell your friend about.

Do you want me to tell you when it's posted? Send an email to this address & I'll do that. Meanwhile I'll tease you by saying that this week's podcast will featuring the likes of Sly & The Family Stone, Iggy Pop, Slim Gaillard, King Floyd & Dick & The Family Cheney. Well, maybe not the last one. But all the rest & more!

Only at selfhelpradio.net. Only with fresh fruits & veggies. Only on time, never late. Only as a last resort.

Huzzah!

In Which Our Hero Makes One Final House Call

In the big media flap that was me distancing myself from my pastor's inappropriate behavior & apparently seditious sermons - wait, that wasn't me at all - was that former French president Jaques Chirac? Wasn't I him in a previous French life? I can't remember. I know there was a big media flap involving me, Caroll Spinney, an ostrich recently "liberated" from the San Diego Zoo, & Alaskan celebrity Mike Gravell. There always is, it seems, when a season ends. It's the burden of being virtually unknown & living in an imaginary world in my own hollow head.

Due to this media flurry, it may have been lost in the shuffle that the last episode of the fine show "The House Call" (normally ably hosted by heavy drinker Justin B) was poorly subbed by me during the hour before the Self Help Radio Season Finale. That show, featuring a not-entirely-right-in-the-head co-host, Mike, is available for listening at the Self Help Radio website. It's worth your time, if only to hear Xiu Xiu's magnificent cover of "Under Pressure." That's a keeper.

Go! Listen! I've got an imaginary press conference to attend, & later I'll be doing some imaginary drugs & crashing my imaginary car into the real tree.

Whither Dynamite?

Two things are interesting to me about dynamite. Ka & boom!

Was that funny? Well, I'm not funny. I'm sickly & I can't go to Los Angeles for my girlfriend's sister's wedding. So I'm sick, I'm depressed, I'm making enemies in my girlfriend's family, & I'm not funny.

Still. Two things are interesting to me about dynamite.

One, the fact that the dude who invented it was so shaken by an accidentally published obituary ("the merchant of death is dead!" it announced) that he started the Nobel Prizes to "atone" for his great destruction. I mean, if everyone did that, Dick Cheney would be spending the rest of his life giving everyone in America fifty dollars! Imagine that!

Two, the fact that it's a weird metaphor. To call someone "dynamite" is to call them "explosive" or "catastrophically violent," right? Nope. It means "great!" I'll be discussing this at length on the podcast. It's weird to me. "Dynamite" = "great"? What's next? "Bad" = "good"?

Of course, there are lots of great songs about dynamite, too. That's the main reason I do these shows I do, you know. The great music. & also the explosions. Ka-boom!

Preface To Dynamite: A Stomach Flu For All Humankind!

I don't know about you, but I am pretty annoyed by viruses. & I'm not afraid to say so! You know what I'm talking about - viruses - sub-microscopic infectious agents that are unable to grow or reproduce outside a host cell. You feel me? No? What if I remind you that viruses consist of genetical material - DNA or RNA - within a protective protein coat called a capsid? Ah, you know what I'm talking about. Fucking viruses! They infect cellular life forms & are grouped into animal, plant & bacterial types, according to the type of host infected. & isn't that the shit?

I was minding my own business last week when some motherfucking virus decided to hang out in my stomach. Say what? You heard me! You know what followed? It wasn't beer & skittles, if that's what you mean. Unless by "beer & skittles" you mean "upchuck & the trots." In which case, then, yeah, it's been three days of beer & skittles.

I didn't go to a doctor, but I'm pretty sure I had (& may still have) this: a norovirus. I did in fact have a low grade fever Saturday night. (The grade? D+.) I scared the hell out of my girlfriend because I kept talking to her but I was responding to imaginings & dreams. Ah, fevers. Like a cheap drug when you least can afford it.

I am doing better now - I have to, I am driving to Los Angeles on Thursday. Wow, I get to transport a norovirus across the country! Someone please please please tell me Scarlet Johansson & Ryan Reynolds are in LA! Please please please.

This does mean limited blog entires for the next week. I'll warn more later. Now. Urp. I need to go visit the facilities.

Cake Request Form

I just discovered there was such a thing as a "cake request form." Ah, bureaucracy. Just tell me where to sign.

The very lastest Self Help Radio on KOOP was quite a blow-out. Hear what the critics are saying?

Nope.

Me neither.

But take my word for it, it was more fun than watching angry people trying to douse the Olympic Torch while French police on roller skates daydream of Segues! & guess what what! You can listen to it in its entirety at selfhelpradio.net! Not just now! Also later! Isn't that just freaky?

& nothing on the cake request form says anything about "one per customer." Suckers!

Last Show On KOOP!

This is it, friends. My last appearance on KOOP radio. It starts at 3:30pm when I sub the House Call one last time, & then the ninety-minute "season finale" of Self Help Radio.

But wait! Unlike most season finales, the "new" season of SHR begins right away next week as a podcast. Send an email if you want to be notified of SHR podcasts! The best is yet to come!

I hope you tune in today. It's a crazy show. Weird interviews, exclusive songs written for the show, & I will make love to a panda on the air. Well, maybe not. We'll see.

Your last chance to hear Self Help Radio on the radio in Austin is 4:30 today! Tune in!

My Last Ear Candy

I came to KOOP in late 2000 on the invite of one of the many Jennifers who have hosted the indiepop show "Ear Candy" since the late 1910s. I had been missing radio a lot but I didn't really want to have to get involved with another organization - especially one with as fearsome & intolerant a reputation as KOOP. In the end, I DID get involved, & I hope I helped change the station into a more welcoming place - but this is not the place to talk about that.

I subbed Ear Candy quite a bit over the years - I just counted - it was around twenty times - & I always loved the show. The first time I was on KOOP, actually, was an Ear Candy show. So it was very nice that Lace - the current Jennifer who handles Ear Candy - asked me to sub the show last Saturday. It was a nice way to say goodbye to a show that was like my second home on KOOP.

Want to listen to that show? You can! At selfhelpradio.net!. Please to enjoy.

& tomorrow is the last time you'll ever hear me on the air in Austin, Texas. Why hasn't the news media called? This is what I want to know.

Whither A Season Finale?

All things - good or not - must come to an end. Of course, Self Help Radio is not ending, but its place on the KOOP schedule is. It's happening at the end of the season. Ergo, Season Finale.

Where will Self Help Radio end up? Well, it comes with me wherever I go, so it'll end up in North Carolina. That's where I'll be by the end of the summer. Why, you many ask. Why Gary? Why the Deep South? You've quit smoking. You really don't want to have to explain yourself Jesse Helms. What gives?

I'll tell you. My girlfriend Magda is getting a job at Duke. Duke is a university in Durham, North Carolina. I love my girlfriend Magda in the way that a boy sometimes loves a girl & wants to be with her all the time. She's very smart & very dorky & we both have seen every episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation too many times. She can speak the language of lemurs. She eats sesame tofu as fast as I do - if not faster. She's funny-looking in a pretty kind of way. I like her!

I decided I'd rather be with my girlfriend than without her. So I follow her. She gets to teach college, I get to work the clean-up shift at Whataburger. Wait. Do they have Whataburger in North Carolina? I need to start sending resumes out!

Self Help Radio may end up on the radio in Durham, or it may just be a podcast for the next year or so. In any case, it's unstoppable! You can't stop it! It's impossible to stop Self Help Radio! Like a crazy dream, it now leaps from the confines of "regular radio" into the aether, & online, but also into the aether, where it communicates with the space demons & protects Earth from unholy meteor penetrations & extraterrestrial salads!

Preface To The Season Finale: Guestbook Weirdness!

Here's something I never thought I'd have to deal with: a weirdo trying to harass me.

A while back I decided to do something totally dorky & add a "guestbook" to my site. It's free, it's silly, it's totally 1996. There have been some nice comments & some misspellings & it seemed a harmless thing to do.

Last week, someone who really, really doesn't like Self Help Radio decided to leave a nasty comment. I figured, hey, everyone's entitled to their opinion, even if it seemed strange to me to take the time to go to some place you don't like & write something nasty about it. It seemed - well - a little douchebaggish. But whatever.

The next day someone wrote something in defense of me, referring to the nasty entry. It was sweet & I thought, all right, it's like point/counterpoint. I certainly didn't want there to be an "argument" going on - I mean, if you don't like the show, you don't like the show, how can you "convince" someone about their own opinion? - but here are two people making two points & now let's go back to the regular stuff.

Yesterday, the person who wrote the first entry - under a different name - it's a really simple guestbook, you can claim to be whomever you want - wrote another mean entry. (How do I know it's the same person? The entries came from the same IP address. The guestbook administration lets me know where the entries come from.) I decided it wasn't the place for that sort of thing, so I deleted the comments - the two nasty ones, & (I'm sorry to the nice person who wrote this!) the one in defense of the show which referenced the first "bad review."

Of course, the nasty ones keep coming, & I'll keep deleting them, since they don't make sense now in the guestbook's context. & I know the same person is writing them all, so I can't even be flattered by hordes of people hating on me. So I make a quiet plea or four:

1) If you don't like Self Help Radio, don't worry, it's leaving the Austin airways. You might not have been able to work the magic radio dial to change the station while I was on the air, but now, since I won't be there, you don't have to trouble yourself. Everything is fine. You'll be all right.

2) I will continue podcasting, & will eventually be on the radio elsewhere, but that will require you to use a computer to download the shows &/or listen online. If you don't like the show, please don't take the trouble! Put it out of your mind. Self Help Radio can't ever hurt you. Things that other people like that you find awful can't hurt you. Concentrate on the things you like. Write nice things on their web pages. It will make the people who make the things you like feel really good. That's much better than trying to make someone feel bad, isn't it?

3) If you must leave comments, leave them here on the blog. Then we can have a conversation. We can't on a guestbook.

4) If you want to have a conversation, use your real name! Don't post under fake names! It undercuts your criticism! What are you afraid of? You know my real name. There are many ways to get to know who I am. Why not tell me who you are?

That's all. I don't like being this "self-indulgent" but it's such a weird & interesting thing to have to deal with, I had to tell SOMEONE. I hope you don't mind!

One Whole Planet

Someone just said to me, "I don't have control issues." "No?" I said, because I wasn't really paying attention & wasn't sure if she had just accused me of telling her that she had "control issues," whatever that means. "No," she said. "I don't need to be in control of much." "How much do you need to be in control of?" I asked her. "One whole planet," she said.

I don't need that much. Just a couple more Self Help Radio shows on KOOP & the promise of radio in the future. & look! The next-to-the-last Self Help Radio is available for your glistening listening pleasure now at selfhelpradio.net. Please listen & enjoy.

& don't hate me for my lack of ambition!