Are you Bhumibol Adulyadej, Sheldon Lee Glashow, Little Richard, Joan Didion, Calvin Trillin, J. J. Cale, Peter Pohl, José Carreras, Morgan Brittany, Krystian Zimerman, Doctor Dre, Wayne Smith, Shalom Harlow, Amy Acker, Nick Stahl, Shizuka Ito, or Chris Solinsky? Are you at all like them? Because they have one thing in common, & it's not that they've all seen the business end of Dick Cheney's Saturday Nite Special. No, today is their birthday!
& do you know what? Everyone, even insomniacs & reincarnated douchebags, has a birthday! Especially but not including my lovely Magdalena, the only woman in the universe who has not gotten so tired of my shit that she's kicked my teeth in! Since she has a birthday (it was this past Monday, by the way), & since she's so important to me, it follows that all birthdays must be important to me. Go ahead, give me a logic puzzle, I'll solve it.
So tomorrow's Self Help Radio will be all about birthdays - not just Magda's, but yours, too. Listen to it now or save it for your birthday week. What do I care? I mean, I do care!
Something smells like a microwaved baked potato. (Which is, of course, weird. Why bake a potato only to microwave it?) I'm getting the hell out of here.
Listen to Self Help Radio tomorrow in the afternoon exclusively at selfhelpradio.net. It'll sound as good as a birthday cake tastes. You have my recorded word on that.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Thursday, December 04, 2008
The Self Help Radio Email Archive Project: Submission Six
Today's remembrance is from a silly email I wrote to a silly woman with whom I might have once had the chance to have a silly relationship but it fell through due to silliness. I am just posting excerpts of silliness.
The email was called "The Mlik Chocolate Melts In Your Hair, Not In Your Hamster"
She told me she was sad, & I wrote this:
You obviously haven't heard The Antacid Song!
Antacid, antacid
You don't understand my tummy
Antacid, antacid
You think I am a dummy
Just because I eat high heels
& travel with the acrobats
& skip all buffet meals
Doesn't mean I won't get mad
At my
Antacid, antacid
My stomach thinks you hate it
Antacid, antacid
He wished I never ate it
Just because I read real slow
& have a complex about cheese
& married an Asian ice flow
Don't mean I can digest grease
Oh,
Antacid, antacid,
Can't we all just get along?
Antacid, antacid,
I mean, in spite of this song?
Now, *that's* sad!
[Later, I write:]
For example, I am having this conversation with you in my head right now:
Me: Hey! Don't eat that!
You: Why not?
Me: It's a bug with staples all in it!
You: I know, I put them there.
Me: But why?
You: He has a soft exoskeleton.
Me: But aren't you going to eat him?
You: Perhaps on a kaiser roll.
Me: Won't the staples get in the way?
You: Does the toothpick in the Schlotsky's sandwich get in *your* way when *you* eat it?
Me: I take it out first.
You: You do?
Me: You're afraid of it getting all runny!
You: Take that back!
Me: You won't eat a runny bug! You won't eat a runny bug!
You: I'll kick your fag ass if you don't take that back!
Me: My fag ass?
You: You have a very homosexual behind.
Me: You think?
You: So do dachsunds, though.
Me: You just said that because they're called "weiner dogs."
You: You have no faith in my abilities, do you?
Me: I take it back.
You: Your faith?
Me: What I said about the runny bug.
You: Why?
Me: It won't get runny, it'll get mooshy.
You: Not with staples in it.
See? Piece of cake!
The email was called "The Mlik Chocolate Melts In Your Hair, Not In Your Hamster"
She told me she was sad, & I wrote this:
You obviously haven't heard The Antacid Song!
Antacid, antacid
You don't understand my tummy
Antacid, antacid
You think I am a dummy
Just because I eat high heels
& travel with the acrobats
& skip all buffet meals
Doesn't mean I won't get mad
At my
Antacid, antacid
My stomach thinks you hate it
Antacid, antacid
He wished I never ate it
Just because I read real slow
& have a complex about cheese
& married an Asian ice flow
Don't mean I can digest grease
Oh,
Antacid, antacid,
Can't we all just get along?
Antacid, antacid,
I mean, in spite of this song?
Now, *that's* sad!
[Later, I write:]
For example, I am having this conversation with you in my head right now:
Me: Hey! Don't eat that!
You: Why not?
Me: It's a bug with staples all in it!
You: I know, I put them there.
Me: But why?
You: He has a soft exoskeleton.
Me: But aren't you going to eat him?
You: Perhaps on a kaiser roll.
Me: Won't the staples get in the way?
You: Does the toothpick in the Schlotsky's sandwich get in *your* way when *you* eat it?
Me: I take it out first.
You: You do?
Me: You're afraid of it getting all runny!
You: Take that back!
Me: You won't eat a runny bug! You won't eat a runny bug!
You: I'll kick your fag ass if you don't take that back!
Me: My fag ass?
You: You have a very homosexual behind.
Me: You think?
You: So do dachsunds, though.
Me: You just said that because they're called "weiner dogs."
You: You have no faith in my abilities, do you?
Me: I take it back.
You: Your faith?
Me: What I said about the runny bug.
You: Why?
Me: It won't get runny, it'll get mooshy.
You: Not with staples in it.
See? Piece of cake!
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Whither Magda's Birthday Show 2008?
There was an old fellow who lived down by the river. He spent the day taking pictures of the water with his mobile phone. He was a lonely sort. He never had anyone to send the pictures to.
In the night he liked to tap on a keyboard with the computer off. He pretended the croaking of the frogs was lyrics to his spasmodic beat. He would never really admit this to anyone. He spent most of his time in his own head.
A big storm came one day upriver. It was almost like it was looking for a place to live. Since he didn't do much upkeep on his home by the river, the old fellow was ill-prepared for the tempest's ferocity. He might even welcome the danger.
He couldn't take his eyes off the storm. He sat on the porch for a while until the pounding rain & the heavy winds started throwing clumps of earth & stones at him. Then he sat inside for a while & tap-tapped on his keyboard. The storm didn't stop. The storm, apparently, didn't want to stop.
Living in his own head, the old fellow couldn't often tell reality from what he wanted to believe was real. The storm was something real that had invaded his head. You can live most of you life in your own head. Love is the kindest kind of thing from the outside that gets in.
The old fellow's storm was the way he felt about someone he met in the real world whose smile had dazzled him. The storm could hurt him, he felt, but so far it had just been astonishing, swirling his life around. Too much to feel, too much to see, senses working overtime on overload, the storm in his head called love.
If he could, he would have made a radio show for his love's birthday. Since I can, I do. For the beautiful woman who makes a storm rage inside me just by existing. How could I not celebrate her birthday?
In the night he liked to tap on a keyboard with the computer off. He pretended the croaking of the frogs was lyrics to his spasmodic beat. He would never really admit this to anyone. He spent most of his time in his own head.
A big storm came one day upriver. It was almost like it was looking for a place to live. Since he didn't do much upkeep on his home by the river, the old fellow was ill-prepared for the tempest's ferocity. He might even welcome the danger.
He couldn't take his eyes off the storm. He sat on the porch for a while until the pounding rain & the heavy winds started throwing clumps of earth & stones at him. Then he sat inside for a while & tap-tapped on his keyboard. The storm didn't stop. The storm, apparently, didn't want to stop.
Living in his own head, the old fellow couldn't often tell reality from what he wanted to believe was real. The storm was something real that had invaded his head. You can live most of you life in your own head. Love is the kindest kind of thing from the outside that gets in.
The old fellow's storm was the way he felt about someone he met in the real world whose smile had dazzled him. The storm could hurt him, he felt, but so far it had just been astonishing, swirling his life around. Too much to feel, too much to see, senses working overtime on overload, the storm in his head called love.
If he could, he would have made a radio show for his love's birthday. Since I can, I do. For the beautiful woman who makes a storm rage inside me just by existing. How could I not celebrate her birthday?
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Preface To Magda's Birthday 2008: Why Is This Particular Birthday So Damn Special?
To answer that, I may need to employ verse. This is a song I've been working on for the past thirteen minutes called "High School Band":
Met a girl from Poland, she was legally sweet
I gave her my broom so she could sweep me off of my feet
She took it as a chauvinist dig about how women
should be the ones doing housework
& punched me in the face for being a total motherfucking jerk.
I know, it doesn't scan yet, unless Bob Dylan were singing it, but it will once I add more profanity & set it to a totally awesome 1987 beat.
For those of you who think it's way too romantic for the likes of me, I will add that I intend to scream "Kill a cop! Cop a kill!" all through the song in a rad back-up mix-up that will play on a frequency which as well can be heard exclusively by Satanists & Christians afraid of Satanic messages.
All of this for the girl called Magda. Why? What is she? Is she some kind of anthropologist extraordinaire? Does she lay golden eggs? Does she use PowerPoint in ways that shame the common academic? Is this why she gets a Self Help Radio birthday show & no one else does?
Can anyone answer such questions? Or can such questions be satisfactorily responded to with another question? Yes & no, & also yes, but also here's something from the opera Carmen which I believe will further obscure what is truly my clearest of intentions:
La fleur que tu m'avais jetée
dans ma prison m'était restée,
flétrie et sèche, cette fleur
gardait toujours sa douce odeur;
et pendant des heures entières,
sur mes yeux, fermant mes paupières,
de cette odeur je m'enivrais
et dans la nuit je te voyais!
Do you see? Must you see?
Also, I lost a library book on the bus yesterday. If you find it, please get it back to me. I am sad about it.
Met a girl from Poland, she was legally sweet
I gave her my broom so she could sweep me off of my feet
She took it as a chauvinist dig about how women
should be the ones doing housework
& punched me in the face for being a total motherfucking jerk.
I know, it doesn't scan yet, unless Bob Dylan were singing it, but it will once I add more profanity & set it to a totally awesome 1987 beat.
For those of you who think it's way too romantic for the likes of me, I will add that I intend to scream "Kill a cop! Cop a kill!" all through the song in a rad back-up mix-up that will play on a frequency which as well can be heard exclusively by Satanists & Christians afraid of Satanic messages.
All of this for the girl called Magda. Why? What is she? Is she some kind of anthropologist extraordinaire? Does she lay golden eggs? Does she use PowerPoint in ways that shame the common academic? Is this why she gets a Self Help Radio birthday show & no one else does?
Can anyone answer such questions? Or can such questions be satisfactorily responded to with another question? Yes & no, & also yes, but also here's something from the opera Carmen which I believe will further obscure what is truly my clearest of intentions:
La fleur que tu m'avais jetée
dans ma prison m'était restée,
flétrie et sèche, cette fleur
gardait toujours sa douce odeur;
et pendant des heures entières,
sur mes yeux, fermant mes paupières,
de cette odeur je m'enivrais
et dans la nuit je te voyais!
Do you see? Must you see?
Also, I lost a library book on the bus yesterday. If you find it, please get it back to me. I am sad about it.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Ten Berths Below
Someone told me something New Mexico. Someone else suggested something else West Virginia. Someone over there told me something over here Dramatis Personae. All this & nothing more! If & only if there aren't several things you need both off your chest & on your knees. I think we understand each other, South Dakota. If only we didn't have to spend the night in this hell-hole I call your life.
Mother father sister brother gene. How fastidious can you cancel out the last lasting vestige of your earliest unremembered memories? Don't try to bullshit a shitbuller. There's only one exit & that one's blue-balled by the Lord.
The only reason your rationale is crumbling like so much crumbly crumble cake is that you're too caught up in squabble with the rabble when you're too crabby to the cabbie. Look around you! It's as if someone made an entire world from Mary Tyler Moore's tears! You're going to break after all!
If there's therapy, then, my friend Ben, you know you can, within your ken, understand that men, now & then, lose, not win. Listen for example to a The Self Help Radio episode or two. Never you mind thematics - whether dysfunction in the family or hot pants in the cold wash, it forces no pills down the throat to keep you swimming. Just listen. Listen & be ill at ease.
Pony Rhode Island!
Mother father sister brother gene. How fastidious can you cancel out the last lasting vestige of your earliest unremembered memories? Don't try to bullshit a shitbuller. There's only one exit & that one's blue-balled by the Lord.
The only reason your rationale is crumbling like so much crumbly crumble cake is that you're too caught up in squabble with the rabble when you're too crabby to the cabbie. Look around you! It's as if someone made an entire world from Mary Tyler Moore's tears! You're going to break after all!
If there's therapy, then, my friend Ben, you know you can, within your ken, understand that men, now & then, lose, not win. Listen for example to a The Self Help Radio episode or two. Never you mind thematics - whether dysfunction in the family or hot pants in the cold wash, it forces no pills down the throat to keep you swimming. Just listen. Listen & be ill at ease.
Pony Rhode Island!