Trigger Harpy

I am feeling negative. Stop me feeling negative. It would be nice for my negativity to have an outlet today. An AC outlet, please. Direct current is too direct for me. Doesn't it know? Jokes about one's sexuality are the new sarcasm.

However, there is no outlet for me. I have given away my show today to a pixie from the Northeast. He will leave hair all over my pillow & drink all my soy cheese. Worst of all, he will prove more exciting than my own show, so I'll have to spend the evening drinking toasts to my inadequacy. Then, of course, I'll get arrested for mowing the lawn at 4am. It'll be my 36th birthday all over again.

The goodest news is that I'll be seeing Patton Oswalt on Sunday. He'll make me have funnies. The other goodest news is that I'll be back next week with a special heartfelt Self Help Radio which will touch the hearts of all the children & their friends in the Travis County Monsterplex, now surrounded by the George W Bush Memorial Moat, & this very special Self Help Radio will be all about traffic.

Traffic! You know what it is, but you don't know what causes it. Also, you sometimes see people in traffic who are apparently having sex. What's up with that? How are they having sex in traffic & you couldn't get laid if you owned a yacht & your face cleared up? We won't be talking about that, actually. Nor will we be making fun of people with really black circles under their eyes. They don't deserve it, & they're still stuck in traffic.

Have a good weekend! Listen to KOOP! Don't get incarcerated!

Online Toffee Makers Revolt

I've been taking a lot of online "tests" that ask questions like "Are You A Homosexual In Your Own Pants?" & "Which Character On Law & Odor Are You Most Like?" & "How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up, Coma Boy?" They're a great way to wile away the time if you're afraid of the work you must do to satisfy the demon lords, but I was most excited recently to discover this particular survey, which has since mysteriously disappeared, as if I dreamed it & it never existed on the Interweb ever. I'll reproduce what I remember:

HOW MANY BRAINS CAN YOU USE TO COLONIZE GLIESE 581C?

This test determines whether you, unlike your roommate, have enough brains to colonize an Earth-like planet before supper. All responses will be considered final. You cannot go to the bathroom. While taking this test, humming is encouraged.

1) I know what boys like.
a) Boys like me.
b) Boys, like me.
c) Boys like meets.
d) Boys like meat.

3) Given three sides of a four-sided triangle, you can compute the fifth side:
a) On Star Trek.
b) On Star Wars.
c) In your dreams.
d) In your underwear.

7) Recent science indicates that RC Cola never really existed. That means that:
a) I've never been loved.
b) Sixteen dead blackbirds are all I have to show for my college education.
c) George Orwell was an a-hole.
d) The delicious taste of Flapdoodle is responsible.

8) Two trendy people live in Austin. They automatically:
a) Think anything they're told is good is good.
b) Think anything they're told is good is good.
c) Think anything they're told is good is good.
d) Think anything they're told is good is good.

10) I like mayonnaise...
a) In Springtime.
b) On long drives.
c) With news of dead Playboy centerfolds.
d) On long sandwiches.

12) A carpet is to a lizard as a picture of you in high school is to:
a) Mile High Stadium, Denver, Colorado
b) A caterpillar
c) Mud
d) Whistling

13) Which of the following is generally known as a gerund?
a) Not this one.
b) Unh-unh.
c) Not even close.
d) Wrong

17) I have never really felt love.
a) Boo fucking hoo.
b) Have a little something to drink, pardner.
c) Take back what you said about Avril Lavigne.
d) Two words: hooker party!

21) Finish this sentence to form the punchline of a famous Milton Berle joke: I can't go to the theatre tonight, sugar tits, as I am sitting on the toilet because of _______
a) Screaming Shits
b) Pulsating Piles
c) Rocketing Rectum Disorder
d) Lonesomeness

24) Which famous Hollywood United States Walt Disney President is best known for drinking his own semen every morning before running the world?
a) Dick Cheney
b) Ronald Reagan (the Gay One)
c) Ronald Reagan (the Straight One)
d) George Bush (either one)

26) This survey is attempting to help you access parts of your mind you didn't think were active because you believe nonsense like astrology & "The Secret" & people who get you high & say dumb shit like "Dude, we only use 90% of our brains - what would it be like if we used ALL ONE HUNDRED PERCENT." When you realize how incredibly much you've wasted your life, what will you most likely do?
a) Go on pretty much the same way.
b) Become your parents.
c) Kill yourself.
d) Kill as many people as possible before you're caught.

29) The number of bumper stickers I have on my car in no way reflects my crippling insecurity.
a) False
b) What?
c) They're funny!
d) I wish I had a car.

34) The number of divorces in the United States keeps rising. Why do you think that is?
a) Just write it down.
b) Seriously, we can't figure it out.
c) It's not one of these answers, though.
d) So this question won't count.

37) To answer this question, you'll need to think logically. Gert has five frisbees. All five frisbees are weighted down with Gert's tears. Gert's girlfriend of seven years, Nan, left him last night for a window washer. Gert wants to throw all five frisbees on the tops of the roofs of the five friends who knew about Nan's treachery but didn't tell Gert. Gert has been drinking for the past seventeen hours. The neighborhood in which Gert's friends live has seventy-four houses. Assuming the wind is light & breezy from the southeast, & the frisbees are flying at only 75% of their potential, & Gert sees one-hundred & forty-eight houses, whose windows will Gert NOT break?
a) The Nelsons
b) That Sex Offender With The White Van
c) Old Mister Woods
d) The Kaiser

40) Life on another planet will most probably be either much less complex or much more complex than human life. We're just saying. It's not like you're going to meet a Klingon or something. It's going to be algae or a being nearly Godlike that thinks you are algae.
a) I hope we meet the algae.
b) I believe Jesus wouldn't do that to me.
c) I'm so alone.
d) Leave me alone.

Postscript: The score I received on the "test" said:

You are ready, willing & able to colonize another planet. You think clearly, you are able to solve complex problems, & you believe it when people tell you things like this. You'll make a great guinea pig when we start shooting people in the general direction of that planet. Contact NASA right away. Go on. Do it.

Guess what! I am going to Gliese 581C! Yay!

Whither Ken's Last Ever Summer Invasion Extravagander 2007?

I first met Ken Lastever at a Hollywood Dachsund Party hosted by Carl Reiner. Both of us had been brought there because of a deep, abiding fear of John Locke. Also, two very different judges - the Honorable Nelson Motherfucker of Garland, Texas, & the Right Justified Honorable Elvis Twinkie of Brooklyn, New York - had sentenced us to Hollywood for youthful indiscretions which the two learned justices hoped we could turn in lucrative careers. We failed, however, & after an abortive attempt to drown Robin Williams in a punch bowl filled with his own ego & unfunniness, we fled, hoping never to see each other again.

Years after that, but before now, I ran into Ken Extravaganza at a Bush Election campaign fundraiser. It was four hundred million dollars a plate, but Ken had had a plate pre-installed in his head, & he was showing it off to the faith-based-inclined. I had been attempting to make a bong out of a Bible when none other than Karl Rove came by & showed me which of the epistles made better rolling papers & the man himself, Laura Bush, came running into the gala event like a cat at a rocking chair fire. Using soothing words & a hand pump, Ken was able to calm the crowd & insert post-hypnotic commands into their brain, which would make them feel something akin to joy when they saw draft dodgers clear brush. This, like many things Ken did, would backfire later, & he testified his regret at the Cindy Sheehan murder trial in Dimension X a few months later.

While I rightly admire Ken for his radios, I am at loggerheads when it comes to his shows. Or maybe it's the other way around. However, he did cure me of the brain hiccups, & though he has not promised to meet me in the People's Court to settle our bills, the assistant pastor at the church by the bus stop to which I am constantly late has let me know that he thinks it would be the organic thing to do to let Ken Radio steal ninety minutes of Self Help Radio this week while I sit in the corner & really, really think about my life, & how much of it I've really enjoyed, & how little of it I have left, especially if I lose my left eye.

So I ceded one week to Ken's Last Ever Radio Extravaganza, the Summer 2007 Invasion Tour. & like all those Democrats who voted to give George Bush a war, I will regret it & it will hurt my chances to be president. But only for my Block Association.

Preface To Ken's Last Summer Radio Invasion Extravaganza: Embedding Secret Words In Plaintext

After forty-three years of stand-up, I decided to enjoy the leisure of a more supine comic. It coincided with the tenth anniversary of my third anniversary of forgetting that I was in medical school. Which is one of the main reasons I didn't need to be around this week. It's not just the loneliness of the applause - or the long-winded runner - or the man who has the "cleaning" job of scraping the fake blood off the wall on television crime shows - though all those things did contribute. Sometime in the past. When you still cared.

The years go by, & your blessings are counting on you. You're the main authority on the subject matter of shit that's been happening to you. Unless you are being filmed, in which case there'll be lots of footage. & not just footage. Headage. Breastage. Torsoage. Hipsage. It's the age of the bodyage.

I wish I could tell you more about Ken's Last Ever Radio Extravaganza, but we've only known each other for a short time. I'll meditate on it tonight, & tomorrow, I'll throw all caution to the wind & make up several lies & one important truth. Like I am the president of Venezuela!

My Name, Your Newspaper

It's happened to almost all of us almost once: local notoreity in the local news magazine. (Some of the rest of us appear on local children's shows when we are local children.) (The rest of the some of us appear on a pederast's blog accidentally because we're standing next to the child at the beach where the pederast is secretly taking pictures with his patented "towel-phone" (tm).) It just so happens I've appeared in the local rag holding a mop & pail for my middle school's "Clean Up The Filthy Mouths Of The Unbelievers" event, where we went to local non-Christian churches (of which there weren't a lot, so we ended up outside of Catholic schools) & we did minor custodial work on their front steps, at which places our Youth Minister, Pastor Demon, screamed if there was press present. Interestingly, one of the kindly old friars who worked at one school always gave me a couple of bucks for my work; since it was sinful money, I spent it on porn.

Anyway, this is just to say that ONCE AGAIN, I don't appear at all in the newspapers. Why is that? Certainly not for lack of photogenic qualities. I'd suggest a conspiracy, but I am afraid of the sort of people that attracts. Besides, I know the reason why. I'm too edgy. Too cool. Too mediocre at what I do. Too forgettable. & that's just something they can't get past. They're looking for real newsertainment - all I can give them is enternews. & their figure of speech department is cash poor at the moment.

Speaking of, how long does it take you to eat a muffin? I have discovered that, in a morning where there are lots of muffins, I can normally finish, say, half a muffin in a little under thirty seconds. But give me a whole muffin (after the half muffin), & I'll nibble on the whole muffin for hours. That means that I spent five hours on a muffin & a half today. For fuck's sake! That's newsworthy!

But ring the village bells & call home the village whores, I am announcing that last Friday's show, which looked at popcorn in a way that no other radio show that's dealt with popcorn ever has, is now available for podcasty downloading on my site. It's at the top of the archive page. Go listen. There's a free muffin with every download!*

* If there's someone around to give you a muffin.

Charles Nelson Reilly, RIP

Goodbye, Chuck.

Last year, for Christmas, for myself, because my girlfriend & my family don't really buy me presents, & because I don't really buy anyone but me presents, I treated myself to a seasonal gift by buying the Match Game Box Set. If they collected every episode of Match Game on DVD - all nine hundred years of it - I would be one of those people who would buy it - & watch it. For the rest of my life.

Of course part of the reason for that was Charles Nelson Reilly. So I am sad that my head has been up my ass for the past week & I didn't even notice he had left us. I also am furious that there wasn't a national day of mourning, with nothing but Charles Nelson Reilly on the television.

They better correct this mistake when Richard Dawson dies, goddamnit.

Self Help Radio, today at 4:30pm, on the air in Austin at 91.7 fm, live at koop.org (CST), archived eventually at selfhelpradio.net. It's probably safe to say I wouldn't be such a goof if I had never been exposed to - over & over throughout my childhood - Charles Nelson Reilly.

When Owls Attack!

Back in the 1960's, everybody was a Marxist. It seemed to me that capers & ashtrays could be rolled into the one thing that is more intellectually satisfying. In America & Israel, I've interviewed people who thought a monkey should give birth to a man. How does it feel to be at camp like that? I find myself concerned in more belief strongly to engage in dialogue with people like you in an Irish accent. In case we've missed something.

Repeatedly, I've been brought up short. The trump card can't be argued with. In this book, my misunderstanding is to talk about this a bit. Faith said she was needed only when she wasn't in evidence. However, I come from when you do say what kind of use to support the fair questions of immediacy. What are the final stages? It tries to make the best possible sense of things.

We can't make a decision to step out. We do need to talk, probably. Take two. One way or another. Not even steven. All sort between naught & a hundred. My attempt to get there, that is to say, is that's there's an inherent improbabilty in saying exactly the same thing of any kind. You can make a probably cognitive judgment. There's a tension to the side of things. Let's live a life beside of that.

I understand what you believe; I wish I understood why. If you feel it flows, I'm very happy to take it. They're all different - how do you know this is the right one, & not the abstract of the physics? Grasping - some realize some of it. Look - it offers the narrative, the way of looking at things, to hold personally that what is good is brought to fulfillment. I would hope they'd want to dialogue with you!

Fundamentally, the world is your oyster sauce. I never said what you said was indicative of having the rest of the night to manufacture labels or never-you-minds. Qualitatively the reasoning seems to misspeak. Nevertheless. It's been what some might call a pleasure to reassuringly talk. That's enough of that.

Whither Popcorn?

This tale is told in five parts. "Chapters," you may say. If you're some kind of storyteller.

Part I: The Link

79 Versions Of Popcorn.

Part II: The Story From My Childhood.

I once knew a kid named Gus. Gus's family had a microwave oven. Mine didn't. The first time I saw a microwave oven, I was a little excited. Because I am/was a comic book geek, I knew that one got super powers from overexposure to weird rays. So I kept wanting to open the microwave oven while it was on, to expose myself to microwaves. I could have become a super hero! Gus's mom wouldn't let me.

We never ate microwave popcorn at Gus's house, though. The family never had any.

Part III: The James Brown Connection

"Popcorn" became some inexplicable idiom in the funk community. James Brown started it. Apparently it lasted for some time. It has absolutely nothing to do with the "Hot Butter" hit of the same name. I can't say for certain it's anything but a dance craze, but I warn you, I miss sexual innuendo unless it's spelled out in the same stark relief that makes Dan Savage's column Savage Love about as erotical as a photocopier. Although I am sure someone does find that erotic, & has written Dan Savage about it.

Part IV: The Weird Coincidence

I have been planning/working on this show for at least a couple of month, & I just today noticed that the Funky 16 Corners Radio website did a show last week about the James Brown Popcorn craze. I will trust that you believe, especially after you listen to my show, that I was not influenced by this one iota. You can download mp3s & dig the funky popcorn flavor here.

Part V: The Promise

I'll have lots of different songs about popcorn on Friday. I ate popcorn last night. I like popcorn. Come listen to Self Help Radio when we talk about popcorn. You freak.

Preface To Popcorn: If I Ever Catch That Whoremonger Orville Redenbacher, I'll Wring His Neck!

I am in no way beholden to the popcorn board. No matter how much free popcorn they send me. Covered in delicious fake granular cheese. Or chocolate. I'm not picky. Pickles! I wonder if I could get free pickles, too! Popcorn & pickles. It's like I am a mentally ill pregnant woman.

I hope one day you will learn how to make popcorn. Meanwhile, as I vainly floss, I tell you that last week's show is up up up for your listening displeasure over at the Self Help Radio site. If you missed it, you missed a special guest appearance by David Bowie & Iman, & a chance to hear me get kicked in the teeth.

No time! No time! I must have more popcorn or I am doomed!

The Self Help Radio Memorial Day Memorial

Memorial Day was founded in 1492 by Columbus in Columbus, Ohio, to mark his ability to sail a ship across the Appalachians. That was something to remember. Today, I remember the following things:

- I remember where I hid the cookies!
- I remember that I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow & she said I shouldn't eat cookies for two days before the appointment.
- I forget what the doctor said.
- I remember the delicious taste of cookies.
- I remember that occasionally (or maybe all the time) people die for something they call "a country."
- I remember whenever I am driving anywhere in the United States that there are lots & lots of empty spaces which are separated from the roads & the cars & the people in the cars by fences.
- I remember that that means that someone owns all of that.
- I hope that the people who are dying for this country maybe own some of that space behind the barbed wire, or else, well, it's kinda silly, you know?
- I remember that the people who own a lot of the country don't have to die for it, since they can afford to pay people to do it for them.
- I remember why I am depressed all the time.
- I remember where I hid the heroin!
- I am glad that I have a day off.
- I... Zzzzzz...

A Morrissey Adventure!

Hey! What if Morrissey were a pirate? Or a superhero? Or a stylish undercover cop busting heads in a corrupt town only he could clean up? Or a space-hero, fighting off invading alien hordes with two laser guns & a microphone?

Okay, none of that sounds fun at all. But I will tell you that, today on Self Help Radio, I'll be celebrating Morrissey's solo career with songs he's recorded since the Smiths fell down & hit their head & died, plus I'll be playing fabulous covers of Morrissey's solo songs by people who wish they were as fabulous as Morrissey, as well as songs that Morrissey himself has covered during his very long solo career. He's been releasing records as "Morrissey" for almost twenty years now; the Smiths existed for maybe a quarter that. Amazing.

I have a special treat for creepy Morrissey fans, available only over the Memorial Day weekend. If you go to the Self Help Radio webpage & click on the link that says Morrissey Contest, & write me an email about how much you like Morrissey, you could win a Morrissey tribute CD that I will make myself with only a sponge & a rusty spanner. (Actually, it'll be pretty much the music I play on the show - without all my blabbing in-between.) It's the way one Morrissey fan shows his love for other Morrissey fans.

So tune in, you sad bastard! I won't let you forget the songs that made your cry, or the songs that saved your life!

The Flabby & The Fastidious

A moral to this story might be: do you care about your blog? Do you want it to be a good blog, full of righteousness & collectible bonus points, or would you rather your blog be a kleenex you might use to wipe away sadness & indiscretion?

Can a moral be a question? There's no question we have a problem with morals. I have no stories to tell that don't involve a fox, a man-whore & the Fromberg, Montana, Glee Club Rejects. Except for this one:

A man, his man-whore, & two former members of the Fromberg, Montana, Glee Club, were sitting in a bar daydreaming about the way things sometimes are, when in walked the most devastatingly beautiful fox they'd ever seen...

No, that one has a man-whore, a fox & the Glee Club rejects in it. I guess it's come to this: I'm all out of stories.

Which reminds me of a dude I used to know named Charlie Shuttle. Charlie was the hippest cat to ever hustle pool or contradict authority the old backwash of a city called Garland, Texas, had ever seen. Snap! That was the sound Charlie made when he got you in a headlock because you were messing with his girl & he'd just pop that top vertebrae out & you were crippled for life. Snap! Charlie Shuttle didn't get in trouble because his dad was Police Chief & his mom was the town drunk. So he had all his bases covered, if you know what I mean. Snap! Guess you'll think twice again, wheelchair man, before you give ol' Charlie Shuttle the stinkeye one more time. Snappity snap!

I wasn't friends with Charlie Shuttle, but I did subscribe to his magazine. He died in an electrical fire on a solar panel after falling thirteen stories from a windmill during the 1986 meltdown at the Garland nuclear reactor. Some idiot tried to save him by tossing him into a pile of coal, but a natural gas line burst & he suffocated to death. There was a sad irony, though - his parents decided to bury him on their family farm outside Granbury, but what should happen while they were digging the grave - they struck oil!

I know, I shouldn't lecture you, but sometimes you're as dense as a dense thicket. Why are we friends, anyway?

Whither A Show About Morrissey?

Yea, but the man is like unto a god to me. Nay, not because of his grand homosexuality nor his snarky wit. Nay, not because Wilde is on his side, while only Bowie is on mine. Yea, he simply spake what was true in my ugly, lonely, yearning little shell of a heart. In ways that no one else could, set to music, something true to dance to, did Morrissey seduce me. So I honor him completely & utterly.

I'm so glad to have grown up & am now able to say, "Oh, I don't like this," etc. Blind worship is for limited intelligences. I ignored him while his career fell apart in the mid to late 90's because he wasn't making very good music. I thrilled two years ago to his comeback, & was disappointed by his most recent record. But for the first time in my life, I'll get to see him live this Saturday. You'll get to hear music by him, covers of his solo work, & songs he's covered while solo. No! No Smiths! Stop living in the past, you Morrissey you!

Live for this Friday. Then dance with me on Saturday.

Preface To A Show About Morrissey: If He Cancels Again I'll Just Die!

I have this dread feeling when it comes to people whom I admire greatly that, if left alone with them, I wouldn't be able to say anything & they'd dislike me immediately. This is partially why I have become such great friends with Scott McLellan. Part of me wants to say it'd be different with Morrissey, but everyone thinks they'd have a great relationship with Morrissey. It's not like people who become friends with Elvis Costello, then come to loathe him because of his current wife. Morrissey's wife is, I'm told, very down to earth. Like June Cleaver with chest hair. She uses all parts of the tofu when she cooks it. She is, it has been widely reported, the sort of girl you'd bring home to meet mother. Not father. Mother.

I have never met Morrissey, & I won't when he comes to town this week. But I feel like I really, really know him. Not like that asshole Johnny Marr. Do I get a sense of him from the new Modest Mouse record? No! I get a Mousey feeling, but that fucker's not Modest. Why should he be? Didn't he write the music for "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out"? Yes, he did. So he can call me all the names he wants. He can shit on my head when I am lying bleeding on the pavement because Morrissey kicked me in the teeth again, I DON'T CARE. He's allowed. But I still don't know him.

I used to know Morrissey, too. In his lean mean period, after he released one crappy record too many in the late 90's & was forced to turn to Bingo to make ends meet. You'll remember those days - I was afraid I had scarlet rubella, & you were daydreaming of making a reality television show where you'd be trapped on a desert island with only fifteen fifteen-year-old boys & girls & the soundtrack to "Hackers." Morrissey existed almost entirely in our heads, saved from ten years before when we were lonesome & we didn't want to believe people could take anything more seriously than we did. Morrissey disappeared, though - up the ass of the universe, I once heard you say - & you disappeared, too. You became part of Kenneth Lay's Ethics Squad & you were the number one Blowjob Researcher in Washington, DC.

Neither one of you did badly, though - Morrissey made a comeback & he's coming to town this week, & you went to the private sector & now study blowjobs for GE. I am estranged from you both. I guess, like the characters in the songs that Morrissey sings that I listen to & which I'll play on my show Friday, I got left behind.

No tears! I am not the saddest clown! Worry me not, endless past! I shall be free of you one day, if only because I plan to remove pieces of my brain one by one until I no longer remember grunge! I am prepared for collateral damage!

Tomorrow: a very long poem to Morrissey written when I was 17 & had never been kissed. Not even by Morrissey.

The Campaign To Make Memorial Day A National Holiday

I was a little sleepy when I wrote this so I was doe-eyed & cute. There was gunk in my eyes. I kept yawning over words & stretching out while we were talking & making it hard for you to understand. I was thinking that, you know, being suffocated by a pillow sounds marvellous.

Because existence is a fruit cup, I am slapping some water on the face of the present time & managing to spend a little & save a lot. You may have an inky inkling where this dialogue is going: yes, we need more days off. The Europeans have it right: don't ever require anyone to work ever. 30 hour week? 30 hour fuck you! Now, where's my health insurance? I need to go to a clinic in Brussels & have my ass removed.

Aside to Scott McLellan: you have been utterly & completely forgotten by everyone but me.

I was at the lake house this weekend - I mean, the lake of fire house - I mean, the firehouse by the lake - I mean, the firehouse once visited by Veronica Lake - & I noticed that the bags under my eyes are getting a little frayed from overuse. This is why I am a champion of allowing everyone unlimited carry-on bags on flights. Or on busses. I haven't been on a bus in years. I mean one of those busses that goes from town-to-town. But just this year, I've been on a place, a city bus, a trolly, an airplane, a magic carpet, a ten-speed bicycle, a hunchback's back, a space shuttle (but I didn't fly in it or anything, duh), a convenience store conveyor belt, & a helicopter. But no bus that goes from town-to-town. Mainly because I haven't wanted to go from town-to-town.

Someone is telling me that I need to enjoy the finer things in life. What does that say about me? What does that say about what that person sees me surrounding myself with at the moment? The only sort of nice things in life? What happens if it turns out my life is nearly exactly like Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, when really it's supposed to be like Law & Order: Criminal Intent?

I'm stuck in an elevator now, & there's a woman laughing at an adverisement next to me, so I'd best do what I do best: scream out the lyrics of "You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown" in Esperanto. That makes the journey more exciting for all of us.

Tips For Wasting A Lazy Sunday

1) Add gin to your lemonade.
2) Mow, mow, mow.
3) Look for redundant videos of Zach Galifianakis on Youtube. Decide - beard or no beard?
4) Divide your Elvis Costello records between when he was good & when he started sucking. Yell at his sucky records. Yes, even if you feel bad about New Orleans.
5) Call your mother. Doze while she talks.
6) Piss your cats off by following them around & doing everything they're doing.
7) Make up a rain dance. Do a rain dance. If it rains, jump in the air, pump your fists & say, "You are my bitch you sky god motherfucker!"
8) Sundays are clothing-optional all over the world.
9) Think about shopping, think better of it.
10) Go to the Self Help Radio website & catch up on the episodes you've been missing. Last Friday's train wreck of a show - about parades - is there for the eating. Yum yum!

Like Living In A Basket Of Henna

I think I'm the only other person besides John Phillip Sousa who has written songs specifically for old people renewing their vows or otherwise getting remarried. I hesitate to mention this because I am a modest man with an Amber Alert, but I am also an accomplished singer slash songwriter (I sing, & I slash songwriters) who is suffering now, not for my art, but against my better judgement. I want to be able to promote my business on my radio show, but I cannot. The FCC doesn't allow it. My mother frowns on it. My cult leader Wiggles 1 says it's bad for my Hobbit Karma, & the woman I love won't let me buy spots on late night television. She's afraid they'll compete with her "hot sex line!" spots.

They used to say, "In for a cuddle, in for a snog," but that didn't play well after reruns of "Gilligan's Island." So we sewed a hole in the cave & made out for the Big City with sneezes ablaze. Our GPS powered by a drunken attempt to find the fastest way via Yahoo Maps in the dark led us straight to the obligatory horror film casting call. I couldn't shriek with so many corn nuts in me, so I got to play the gay ranger. You got to skinny dip in a South Dakota prison while humming an MC Hammer tune (which, technically, means you were humming a Rick James tune) & the killer (played by James Spader) caught you, tied you up, & removed your bridgework. We made fifty dollars that day & fed it to the local rabbits.

An Appalachian firehose told us stories of riches & treasures downstream in the Pisgahs, so we rented a jalopy from Archie Andrews & made quick time (our musical interlude was only two minutes). Alas, though we were armed with a Richard Gere quarterstick & a half-drunk bottle of Martini & Rossi, we were still bested by the clans of roving Elf-Fuckers who patrol the other side of those old hills. They only let us leave when I kept kicking their ass at Trivial Pursuit. & you didn't want to bring it!

What I am meaning to ask is, can we forfeit time? What happens to a dream demured? As I remember the delicious way they killed realtors - slowly, with great care, in empty houses with great resale possibility - I try not to reflect on future failures. Instead, I wil file a lawsuit. If you'd like to be a co-plaintiff, or if you'd like to be sued, I know a guy who knows a girl who knows this family in Washington DC who knows this bathhouse which is run by this dude he knows who keeps videos of all the patrons & the number-one biggest "rubber ducky in the bath" client is none other than former head of the Soviet Union Raymond Burr!

If you don't believe me, at least listen to my radio show. It's like a ninety-minute long song, broken into ear-sized chunks.

The Critics Are Quick To The Draw

My post yesterday was a widely anticipated attempt to mix internal rhyme ("doggerel") with external rhyme ("Dylanerrel") to capture the fresh new sound of our post-Global-Warming culture. But reactions were decidedly icky:

Paul Walker Poot in the Stalon Onlin (yeah, they spell it without an e - whaddaya gonna do?) - said, "Once again, a radio personality (if you can call him that, which I can't, although I just did) attempts to meld their mundance audio experience with the flights of poetic fancy. The results literally made me weep tears of blood."

The usually supportive Maryann Serialkiller over in Spate said, "Though I am usually supportive, I feel as though the liberties this deejay takes are embarrassing & overindulgent. More music, sir, less poesy."

My old middle school Texas History teacher, the late Papa Jim Burns, when I read the piece to him, told me via the Ouija Board: "Your feet are flat. Stop making cheese with your mind. Knit socks stopped the last ice age. Give me two pennies with a kiss."

The film critic known only as 1975 said on his blog, "I was going to start reviewing more than films, but the first blog I found was an obviously self-hating homsexual attempt to rebuild his closet from the moans & groans of his 'listeners.'"

On a more cheery note, on the blog called "Living With Advanced Phlegm Deficiency," the brave soldier named DryMouth763 said, "If I never had to read shit like this again, I could die happy." It's so wonderful to see someone come to grips with what is obviously a very disgusting disease. I'm pleased I could play a part.

However, this bodes ill for advanced reviews of tomorrow's show, & I would like to point out that the staff of writers I employ for Self Help Radio - the Blog - are not the staff of writers I employ for Self Help Radio - the Radio Show - but only because I don't have a staff of writers. Instead, I have some magic Darren Aronofsky tree bark which I eat a little bit of, dream I am a bald Hugh Jackman, then I settle down & do a radio show. The tree bark is what makes all the difference.

The only drug I take before I write these blog entries is fear. Fear, & a little oxygen. I'm sorry I have failed you so.

Whither Parades?

This is the fourth iteration of my explanation why there's such consternation about the association of my radio station & the word "parade." Once again, I must explain, though I admit it cause me pain, I would fain let you sustain one more drop of rain of the confusion which has lain about the wreck of train that is my disdain (what a sorry refrain!) I have for those who, in the main, cannot but crane their necks to obtain reasons why I am doing a show about "parades."

Why do you need to know? Is it because I tell you so? You wouldn't search high or low, no, you are lazy & you are slow, but to a computer you will go & with some "browser bookmark" in tow, you find the link to my show, & then to the blog to feast on my woe, though never must you look too long to find out why my theme is what my theme is that week.

But I don't think you really care. Oh yes I dare to say so, where you once thought I was timid, now I rise from my chair, making the hair on your neck bristle back there - it's not fair that I, fully aware, spend all this time to bare my soul to apathetic you, in your lair, as you stare or blink or say, "Gare, that's not true," then drift off, it's not rare, it's the disinterst you wear when you lazily glare at my blog as I write something else about my show.

I love my radio show & I want you to like it so I continue to write these things even when I lose my "rhyme time." "Rhyme Time" is a factory-authorized time of day when you are allowed to rhyme to your heart's content. People who sign up for "rhyme time" are not allowed to rhyme continuously for any time other than rhyme time. Otherwise, they may destroy the space-rhyme continuum. I would have loved to continue the poem. But my time is up.

Parades this week. Parades are fun. Parades might get you laid. Ooops. Forget I rhymed that.

Preface To Parades: Whatever Float Floats Your Boat

Madchester Martin, in his impotent history Parades & The Fancy Men Who Love Them, forwarded the astonishing thesis that parades were a metaphor for parades themselves, making the idea of parades a simile, & the sound that parades made a self-fulfilling onomatopoeia. This is why he was later voted king of France, but in his early years, supervising the clean-up crew at the Pigeon Towers, he often wondered why parades were the way parades were though parade uniforms looked silly at any time of year besides Halloween. He also dreamed of a never-ending parade that only stopped when he woke up.

The last time I went to a parade, it was kinda gay. Actually, it was very gay. It was a Gay Pride Parade. I was not the only straight person there, nor was I the only straight person there getting some hot gay sex. But being at a Gay Pride Parade doesn't make you gay. It doesn't even make you a paradophile. It just means you're prideful. Chew on that, Voltaire!

Voltaire, by the way, did not invent parades. If it's just one crazy French guy marching down the street making bugle noises with his mouth, that's not a parade. That's just goofy. So too the saying, "Be my parade!" is incorrect. You need at least ten people & two floats to have an official parade (this is in the Oxford University Parade Rules Handbook, New Millenium Edition). People who tell you you must have animals are liars. Probably they work for the Parade Animal industry. Those bastards will say & do anything to get work.

I know many of you are afraid that I am just a shill for the Parade World myself. This is not so. For example, when I did my show last week about addresses, I made it perfectly clear that I myself had an address. During the show I did about owls earlier this year, I made it clear that I owned four owls & was an owl-breeder who sold owls on OwlBay. I have always been upfront about my financial, social, or sexual relations with the topics I explore on my show. So even though the International Big Parade Conglomerate (funded by UNESCO & the World Bank, at least until Wolfowitz is fired) has bought me new clown shoes & an official baton from Boca Raton, I don't feel I am doing them much of a favor by having an entire show about parades. Indeed, they'd prefer I leave the topic alone. Every year I do a Christmas show, fewer people celebrate the holiday. That's known as the "Self Help Radio Curse."

Tomorrow: President Truman on parades: "We must have them here so we don't have to have them there."