Countdown To 200!

First a quick note to the kind person who called my show today concerned about the amount of glue I seemed to be sniffing on the air: it's totally okay. I sniffed so much glue when I was in college (it certainly made my "The English Novel In The 19th Century" class much more interesting - I remember Lawrence Sterne tasted like strawberries!) that one of my nostrils no longer can smell. It also is virtually hairless &, when I have a cold, doesn't so much get runny as emit a vapor which could only be described as bits of my soul bubbling away. So, of course, in the interests of being as real as possible with the theme of my show, which today was glue, I was forced by the show's owners (which require I take a more active role in my themes) to actually sniff glue, but I did it through that nostril, which can only now be affected by a drug if I inject it with a large bore hypodermic needle. Which of course I didn't do. My radio station does not allow us to bring drug paraphrenalia in the deejay booth. Only in the bathroom.

The reason I am writing this blog early on a Saturday morning in the back of an Austin Police vehicle (don't ask) is that I just noticed - I am about to write my 200th entry to the Self Help Radio blog! How could I have known, when I began this blog back in September of last year, that I'd have two hundred posts in me? I wrote a lot of bad poetry in my teens & twenties, & found that that well had run quite dry when I accidentally attended a Poetry-A-Thon ten years ago in Salado, Texas, when my car broke down & I was looking for some hookers. (Note: Salado hookers do not hang out with slam poets.) I couldn't bring myself to try to rhyme in front of a bunch of central Texas literates. I couldn't even manage free verse. After croaking out the world's lamest limerick, I left the stage in shame. Then I was mercilessly taunted by three middle school kids who had combined their love for gangsta rap & Star Wars into a Spenserian sonnet & took home the door prize.

Naturally, I thought my days of being creative with "words" was behind me. But not so! This is number 198, & surely I can manage two more before I am forced to sleep this off in the drunk tank! The question is: what should I do to celebrate post number 200? Should I invite the folks? Might I offer you cake & ice cream? Should I sell stock in Self Help Radio? I have no clue, & the friendly police woman is asking me to give back her laptop & blow into what has got to be the world's lamest party favor. So I'll be thinking about it... You think about it, too.

& if the video of me weeping into this nice police officer's bosom ever makes You Tube, remember: I knew they were filming it. The whole time. So it's not embarrassing.

When Apologies Attack!

Wow, yesterday's attempt at being funny slash profound was a load of horse pooper, wasn't it? I don't know what the fuck I was sniffing at that time. I think I wrote a word every half hour. While little bits of asbestos drifted from the unsafe ceiling above. I'm serious, who the fuck was I trying to impress? Ezra Pound? Wallace Stevens? Betsy Mae in Accounting? My department doesn't even have an Accounting section! I don't know what part of my department Betsy Mae works for!

Like most people, I blog in the nude. This makes writing in my blog at work very uncomfortable, since, like most American & Canadian businesses, my work requires that I be at least partially clothed for the entire work day. ("Fig Leaf Fridays" being a relatively new development. Usually that's most popular in the Swimsuit Section of the Department.) Add to all of this the fact that I am not supposed to blog at work (except when I ghost-write my boss's blog), & you can imagine the looks I get from my co-workers when I begin to disrobe in my cubicle! One of these days I'll either get in a lot of trouble or I'll catch cold. Damn they keep these offices frosty!

What I really need to do, though, is just apologize. No one should have to trudge through the treacly, tragic stabs of ha ha that I attempt on a more or less daily basis here. Luckily, nearly no one does. Most likely, if you're reading this, you're my mother wondering what I am saying behind her back, or you're a spider crawling the web looking for poor bastards to sell viagra to make their newly-extended penises work. Which reminds me. I need to answer an email from a cute Russian girl who found my name in a chat room...

While blogging has become a serious pasttime in this United Snakes, it's more & more the less & less affluent who spend oodles & oodles of time downloading porn & music from Russian Federation websites that somehow slip right past expensive corporate firewalls with tacky corporate firewallpaper. I know that my (very) hypothetical audience is essentially finding their way here looking for Amazon Dot Com promotional codes & the lastest nipple slip from the latest nymphette. I have only those illusions that enable me to walk out the door every morning with my handgun on safety - the rest of the time, I look quizzically at graphs & make sure that the court-mandated pills I take to keep my dogs loving me are safely down the gullet. So, too, the blog is not so much required to be adventurous, but simply moded: an arm of the radio show, as the music is the radio show's heart.

Gah! I can't stop it! What the fuck am I writing! How long can this go on! Did you ever see such a fat, bloated tick of crapola stuck suckily to the side of a computer screen? Ye gods, I am a douche.

Also, self-pity & self-deprecation, while admirable in a much-lauded public servant or celebrity, is essentially the face of acceptable well-rehearsed modesty, while in a virtually unknown blogger, it's BOOOOOOOOORRRRINGGGGG.

It's true, actually. Bah.

Whither Glue?

So glad you asked. I answer with a question: how glue are you?

We often think of glue as a noun, but not so Self Help Radio! Self Help Radio uses glue to describe itself - & so should you. For it's glue that we are missing in our nonstick world of counters & tabletops. Glue is how we should answer questions like "How are you?" ("Glue!") or "How do you feel?" (Glue!"). I am convinced much work would be accomplished if we simply be more glue than we currently are. Heck, I even think we could invent a new genre of music & call it "the glues."

But maybe you don't entirely get it, or, in the new jargon, you don't glue. I glue. Totally, I do. It sometimes helps understanding if we turn what was formerly a noun into not just an adjective, but also a verb. To allow oneself to feel glue, one must simply glue. Glueing is how glue describes itself. Maybe unfortunately, there's already a verb, "to glue," which means something like, "to apply glue." That may be a hurdle. But just like the verb "to eat" once meant "to not eat" (back in the 13th century or something - I read it online I think - or maybe I dreamt it in one of my etymological dreams), so too can we change the meaning of the verb "to glue." One way to do this is to eliminate glue as a noun.

& that means eliminating glue as a substance. You've discovered this week's Self Help Radio's most nefarious scheme: the elimination of glue as a substance. It's unnatural to stick things together when they don't want to be! It's unnatural to force adherence in regards to adhering! In elimintating glue as a substance, we are left with only memory - & metaphor.

We shall then become the metaphor. We shall be glue. & we'll reclaim the noun, at last. As the world falls apart, we, the glue, will express ourselves as glue, & we shall glue.

I ask again: how glue are you?

Preface To Glue: What Is That Delicious Smell?

One day, in 1982, when a certain insensitive American Literature teacher made a certain sensitive schoolboy run out of class in tears, the history of the Trinidad, Texas, Independent School District was changed forever. That crying schoolboy fled to the boy's restroom, where he found a small group of young toughs sniffing airplane glue. Though slight of build & smart, the weeping schoolboy fell in with that crowd, & a series of personal disasters & run-ins with the law surely followed. There was death, disease, unhappiness, hospital visits, & a lot of sex for some reason, & with some rather attractive young women, including one who I swear looked exactly like Phoebe Cates in Fast Times At Ridgemont High. There were fights with parents, clergy, the mean man at the cigar store, even with his closest friends. By the time everyone had given up on that sensitive schoolboy, he was alone in the world, with only one functioning nostril & one last drop in that tube of glue.

But he let that drop go to waste. Determine, still a little fucked up, he pulled himself together that lonely night & turned his life around. It wasn't easy, but since he was a white kid whose parents had been saving money for him for college, it wasn't really all that difficult, either. In any event, his addiction cured, he went to school, determined to make school safe for everyone, but especially sensitive schoolboys with addicitive personalities.

& that sensitive schoolboy turned out to be none other than Dr. Jack Scrawfelter, Superintendent to the TISD! & his first duty: he fired the teacher who had hurt him so!

Interestingly, that teacher, Elmyra Crabtree, was only a few weeks from retiring, but due to a trumped-up charge against her by the superintendent, she was denied a large portion of her retirement, & spent her savings in court challenging the ruling. The judge was a good friend of the Scrawfelter family & also had two kids in the school district, so she basically lost everything when he ruled against her. She now works in the bean section of a school lunchroom in Corsicana.

Let that be a lesson to you, glue sniffers & mean teachers alike! I can make up a story about both, & have the weight of my trumped-up moral make you feel weird! It's true! It's not true! What do you know?

In Which Our Hero Forgets His ATM Card & Gets Arrested

This will mean nothing to anyone who isn't a Texan who's had to drive on the I-35 corridor from Austin to Dallas (or vice versa) in the month of August ever in the last twenty years, but I just want to say: FREAKY. It's rained more on this part of the world this summer than it would have if we'd been forced to live One Hundred Years Of Solitude, so all of central Texas is green, gReEn, GREEN! Usually around this time of year, there are warnings of fires. People put cigarettes out in their hands if there's nothing else around. Grills are subject to background checks. Kids with magnifying glasses get roughed up by the Highway Patrol & sent to reeducation camps. But this summer: it's so green it hurts.

It's too weird. I blame the Bible.

This has nothing to do with what I was going to tell you, which is this: if you missed last week's show about "bathing" (which has already been compared to "a delightful interview with Charlie Rose" by my mother, who also missed last week's show, but who thinks I'm a lot like Charlie Rose don't ask me why), you can go over to selfhelpradio.net & listen to the whole thing as if it were happening now. Which is isn't. Because I'm right here.

Fungi love this moistness. I blame the Bible.

Cry At Will!

I am locked outside my house. I am banging on the door but no one is within. Well, not no one. There are cats, but they are listening to music really loud, so they can't hear me knocking.

I live in what some might call a house that was built about a decade & a half before I was born. The house, unlike me, is not afraid of the eventually colonscopy - as it has put it, "Wasps have lived on me. Rats have burrowed around my foundation. What do I fear someone sticking something up my ass? Have you seen my sewage line? I feel sorry for the fucking doctor!"

My house stopped speaking to me a few minutes ago. It wanted to talk about John From Cincinatti which, though I am enjoying it, doesn't seem as important as getting into the house right now. I have to make a radio show, it needs me to shut the damn cats' music up!

It made me think of an apartment I once knew. It was a little gay - you know how apartments are - but whenever I locked myself out - er, I didn't mean to imply that I currently locked myself out - I mean, I'm not that careless - but anyway, the apartment I knew was kinder than my house. My house is like, "Ha ha, asshole, can't get in the house. The dogs have been tied up by the cats & they're shitting all over your records, ha ha ha."

Anyway, I got to get inside. I am writing this with my mind. Tomorrow I am planning to do my show with my mind as well. Unless, you know. I lock my brain in the house.

Whither Bathing?

I like to be clean. I am happy to be living in a part of the universe where I can be clean. My hair gets greasy. My skin gets dry. I need a bath & cremes & lotions & wraps & powders & expensive gadgets to not be a crumbly, sweaty, smelly thing. & that's just in the morning. By afternoon I need a quick shower & a group of scary Italian men to rub essential oils all over me before the end of the workday. & of course a bath in ice-cold lamb's blood at the end of the night, with a Cuban cigar & a cup of fair-trade tea, to keep me from the night terrors.

It's your average Western Civilization lifestyle, & I am damned lucky to have it. So I don't think it's too presumptuous to celebrate it with a Self Help Radio about it. In fact, I would say it's part & parcel with my other radio shows celebrating the incredible luck I've had being born in the United States. My show about having a very low probability of being the victim of sudden, inexplicable violence was a big hit, as was my show about being very fortunate to not have to worry about diseases in my tap water. Of all my shows on this theme, my least popular one was the one about how buying a hybrid car is the main way I can save the world. Even my equally self-deluded American listeners saw through that shit.

But! We can celebrate being clean! It's certainly something the whole world wants, even if it's impossible for most of them. I think the admonition "Think clean thoughts!" is appropriate here, although we should qualify it - don't make the thoughts themselves clean (as in, not perverted) - but make the thoughts about being clean!

Also, I am working on a way to make listening to Self Help Radio the equivalent of taking a ninety minute shower. Details forthcoming.

Preface To Bathing: Is It Okay To Shower While Drunk?

The learned professor of smarty-pants stuff, Edmund Noggin, once produced a widely-derided study of the effects of certain drugs (including alcohol & tobacco) in the shower. Some background may be needed: Professor Noggin (or Nogsy, to his prostitutes) felt that he was way too grubby for his own good, & he bathed over six times a day. He was not strictly a shower man; he could & did enjoy a warm bath whenever the moment felt right. He developed over time a permanent wrinkliness to his skin. Mainly people thought he might be a pug. Despite that, he continued to test - mainly on himself - the effects of normal day-to-day experiences while in the bath or shower. The results were not really all that exciting, but it made him happy. His articles were never published in American scientific journals, but later it was discovered that many of them were translated poorly & ended up in Communist Party Newsletters in small towns of the former USSR satellites of Latvia & Lithuania.

Here are some excerpts from his report on drugs in the shower:

Alcohol: Need to remember not to sip directly under the shower head... Easy to slip & fall & break glass. Easy to get confused & accidentally eat soap.... Re: gin & tap water - my god, does gin go with everything?... If you pass out in the shower, most likely the cold water after the hot water runs out will wake you... Delicious.

Ecstasy: Oh sweet mother of god. Oh gracious universe. Oh this feels amazing. Why should I ever leave? Why won't anyone ever just love me like this water is loving every part of my body right now? I need to find someone to shower with me!

Marijuana: Got hungry, skipped the shower, fell asleep in front of the television.

LSD: Water is made of light. They lie, those scientists (I can't believe I once thought of myself as a scientist!) when they said light's speed is constant. Can't you see, water is light, wrapping itself around you, dripping off you. It takes the unclean parts of you when it leaves, so I am watching my bad parts slowly get sucked down the drain while I am replaced entirely with light. This world has poisoned me, there is so much of myself to replace with slow, solid, nourishing light!

Tobacco: It's fucking hard to keep this lit. Next time maybe I'll try a pipe.

Speed: I've never been so clean. I cleaned between my toes. I cleaned between my hairs. I think I also cleaned the shower. & the bathroom. & wrote this report. & typed it. & sent it out.

A Tale Of Two Radio Shows

This past weekend, I did two radio shows. One was my normal (used conditionally) show, Self Help Radio. The other was another KOOP show, which I subbed, called Stronger Than Dirt. You can click on the link to see what sort of show that is, if you're not familiar with the song it's named after.

On one show, two people dressed as bunny rabbits showed up. On the other, someone strange called & told me "I sounded familiar" but not because they'd heard me on the radio.

On one show, gods that take the form of bunnies were professionally discussed. On the other, footwear of deejays was unprofessionally discussed.

On one show, uncomfortable & unconventional commentary about rabbit poop was celebrated. On the other, Canada was unsuccessfully located on a map.

On both shows, incredible music was shared with the people of Austin. But you don't have to take my word for it (or even be in Austin). Both shows have been made digital exactly as they happened & are available for your listening pleasure right here. What are you afraid of? What are you waiting for?

I am sleepy now. I'll nap while you listen.

Professional Confessional

Carlton Wind, of Megasticks, Nebraska, writes: "I once fed the largest hamster known to woman (indeed, only a man had seen a larger hamster, & that man, alas, was not myself) the world's stickiest head of lettuce (verified by committee) & wrote the best narrative on the experience I had currently available."

Rita Mylar, of Curt, Delaware, responds: "Happy indeed is the (non-existent) soul whose piece of (intangible) mind is made (virtually) whole by kind & good (insufferable) works within the confines of (metaphysical) beauty!"

Dr. Emily Ouch, of Reeling, Nevada, commented later: "You may imagine that the sum is equal to the sum of its parts, but that is a common misconception by the layperson in regards to both diagnoses & treatment of what we in the business call 'the sum of its parts.' It's now well understood that some of its parts are in fact not really factored into the sum of its parts. We find that sumptious."

Children's entertainer Chet "Fluffy The Moose" Spurt weighed in on the editorial page of the Bongos, Alabama, Bingo Quarterly: "As superfluous as the destruction of a single species - a single species of a thousand thousand members we may want to remind ourselves! - may appear in the annals of the cosmos - a work that spans a billion billion volumes we may say as we try to find a book in this library! - as one of those such species who may yet die - who may find themselves as merely one of a trillion trillion trillion footnotes in but a single book in that momentous library we must be aware! - truly even so it should bum us out."

Famed newscaster & javelin catcher Horace Tilde of Woetown, Kansas, mentioned: "Old bumps, sit ye not on mine forehead, though thy crusty way be but crust in my way. Old folds of skin, lay ye not on mine flabby buttocks, but set ye gently, so I my yet rest comfortably on my piles. Old nasty thoughts, come ye not when my mind is most intoxicated, but approach ye calmly, bearing gifts of pornography written, photograped & filmed, so I may see thee when I may most need thee. Yay, verily."

But it's Grant Cheesecutter of Wormwood, Texas, who made it most clear: "I don't give two whooping cranes if you can't get your ass motivated to listen to Self Help Radio on 91.7 fm KOOP this afternoon. I don't give a flying fleidermaus whether you listen to it online at koop.org from 4:30 to 6pm central United States time. Truly, I couldn't give more than half a shipwrecked shogun. I'll do it with you, I'll do without you. God you make me puke."

Not Enough Time To Make Any Sense

Busy busy busy. Also, rainy rainy rainy. It's 75 degrees outside right now. In July. At 5pm. That's so fucked it's not funny.

But it's going to get worse!

Yay Global Warming!

Whither Rabbits?

It's simple. My show this week is happening on July 27. Exactly sixty-seven years ago on that date, July 27, 1940, a brilliant fellow from Taylor, Texas (which is just a few miles north of Austin, where you can hear Self Help Radio) named Tex Avery directed the very first cartoon which featured the iconic animated smart-ass (& very close friend of mine during my youth) Bugs Bunny. I'll be celebrating Bugs' sixty-seventh birthday on my show Friday with a show all about Bugs' family: the Leporidae. The rabbits.

Oh, Bugs'll make an appearance. Don't you worry.

Also, next week's show will be about bathing. So for those of you who don't like it when my show has an actual reason for having its theme of the week, I'll return to being utterly arbitrary in August.

Preface To Rabbits: A Long Discussion Of That Episode Of "Gilligan's Island" Where Our Hero Ate The Radioactive Carrots & Got Super Eyesight

Bunny was the name of the schoolgirl tragedy we witnessed on Prom Night, 1993. You didn't remember all of it - you'd been huffing charred Cocoa Puffs since 10am - but we had made a pact that said this: if we couldn't get anyone to go with the prom to us, we'd act like we didn't care while inside we'd feel like we'd never do anything greater than killing ourselves. Since we weren't terribly motivated, we planned instead to eat as many sandwiches as we could without looking at one another. That was the plan. But as you know, human beings make plans while rabbits laugh. The night turned into a tragicomedy.

At the time, the woman you loved was working as the bass guitar in a psychobilly band. The woman I loved was married to the drumkit in the same band. We weren't old enough to get in the bar, but the kindly bouncer let us sit across the street & listen. Across the street was the halfway house, & we only thought about it insofar as we wondered what exactly it was halfway between. We figured it was something like, halfway between the bar & the house behind it. Something like that.

Louie Crazypants was a convicted felon with convictions. He didn't believe two homosexual boys like you & me should be so unhappy on our Prom Night 1993. I explained we weren't so much gay as sensitive & he beat the living shit out of me for sassing him. I still remember his kind eyes as he explained to me, apologizing, why he had to do it, baby. Then he gut-punched you to show you he loved you, too. He handcuffed us to the back of his truck & drove us to the prom.

Wow, were we fucked up that night! Louie bought us beer & grapefruit, & he told us to drink up, only hitting us when we accidentally squirted him with grapefruit juice, as you will, trying to forced a piece out with a spoon. We arrived at the school in time for the crowning of the King & Queen. Looking around, you & I noticed the same thing - for some reason, Louie had taken us to a school not in our city, but in the neighboring suburb. We also noticed he had covered himself in gasoline & was laughing madly as he moved toward the school door.

Oh Bunny! You were the cutest Prom Queen I'd ever seen, & I'd seen at least one before. Louie ran straight for you as you sneaked a cigarette, balancing your tiara so prettily as you attempted to light a smoke in heels. Your light came on as Louie came on & the two of you went up, up, up. The school, which had earlier that week had all of its asbestos removed & so was feeling a little vulnerable, caught fire as if in spite. Handcuffed to the truck, holding grapefruit rinds to protect us from parts of the school flying at us as the it blazed, we barely saw the class come flying out of the school, virtually every one of them horribly burned & screaming.

The police weren't entirely understanding - we were beaten repeatedly & forced to answer to the name "Betty" - but in the end, they couldn't explain how we could be handcuffed to a truck & also able to start a fire. When we tried to show the cop how we could have done it anyway, our lawyer stopped us, & he was beaten repeatedly. We enjoyed that.

We found out about Bunny years later, when the story was made into a made-for-TV movie that you saw on a plane. You wrote to the producer about how unfair it was that they cast Anthony Michael Hall as you, but I was perfectly happy with the brillaint casting of Paul Dooley as me. You called me that night - the first time we talked in years - & my mother yelled at you & then went across the street & threw eggs at your window. Those were the days!

No Buns For You!

SELF HELP RADIO NOTES. PAGE ONE.

In addition to the regular Self Help Radio, which will allegedly be about rabbits this week, Self Help Radio host & founder Gary Dickerson will guest host the famous KOOP show Stronger Than Dirt.

SELF HELP RADIO NOTES. PAGE TWO.

Self Help Radio host & founder Gary Dickerson spoke with authorities & was unable to provide any information about the whereabouts of KOOP programmer & host of the famous KOOP show, Stronger Than Dirt, Scott Gardner, although Gary Dickerson seemed to think he'd turn up after Sunday or so.

SELF HELP RADIO NOTES. PAGE THREE.

If you're sad about missing Self Help Radio last Friday, the show about "Pride," or if you are sad because you heard it, you can either relive your pain or experience it for the first time, because the show is available in its entirety on the Self Help Radio web page.

SELF HELP RADIO NOTES. PAGE FIVE.

Any listener who has last seen or otherwise heard anything from Self Help Radio host & founder Gary Dickerson's naked mole rats, who went out for a drink last Friday after a brief heated exchange & have not called home since are advised to contact Gary Dickerson at the Self Help Radio offices. Please note: the naked mole rats might currently be clothed.

SELF HELP RADIO NOTES. PAGE SIX.

Did you know that naked mole rats have extremely hard teeth because they eat very hard things. Like corm. Or rhizone. Or corn nuts. Or the rims of whiskey glasses. But mainly the roots of plants. You know. God I miss them. Babies please come home!

Proverbs 16:18

Oh why did I agree to do a show about PRIDE? It's making me look bad! It's the worst of the Seven Deadly Sins! I am so fucked!

Wait a second. I don't believe in that "sin" shit. Plus, I am a child of the last three decades of the 20th century. Pride was never a bad thing. Pride was the one thing you had when you had nothing else. Fuck you Bible! I am proud to be the person I am.

Oh wait. I'm a white dude. White Pride is what racists call their hatred. I don't have any of that. I barely have a heritage, let alone some kind of "culture" about which I can be proud of. Now I'm fucked again.

But I am kinda proud of my radio station, which recently had its license renewed. Fuck yeah! Community radio pride! I am totally down with that.

So if you're proud of yourself for non-icky or fucked-up reasons, or if you're proud that there's a radio station like KOOP around, or if you're just glad there's only seven deadly sins, because you've counted at least twenty, then you will enjoy Self Help Radio today at 4:30pm. That's Central time. You can hear it on 91.7 fm or you can go to the KOOP website to listen online.

If you do, I'll be proud of you.

Partner Faking Her Orgasm?

I love love love the Urban Dictionary.

When I have to do a show where there's not a whole lot to talk about & I don't really want to make things up (well, I never really don't want to make things up), I'll go see what the kids are defining.

Sometimes, though, there are things I could never say on the air. Like this definition of pride meat. I have no doubt young men have used this phrase before. It certainly sounds like something a twenty-year-old would talk about. That, & a pride swing. Kids today! So free & easy with their naughty bits!

I could probably get away with talking about the "lewd" act called the Pride of Montpelier, but it's only funny because of the second part of the definition.

In Austin there are a lot of pride rides. Did they call cars in the 70's with Black Power stickers on them "pride rides"? Were there Black Power stickers? Why not?

But, in any case, tomorrow's Self Help Radio will at the very least increase the amount of prideons you have. Isn't that worth it?

Whither Pride?

Dear Communists,

Look! It's a naked guy with a bird's head! No, really!

Have you had problems with pride? I guess I've had my highs & lows. We always think we're better than we are until we're laid low.

That girl's dangerous! She must be on some powerful stuff!

A show about pride should not be construed as me having pride in my show. I know how embarrassing it is. Like being pantsed every Friday from 4:30 to 6:00 by the nerdiest bullies in the world. Which you will of course find on KOOP.

We'll have to face the fact that we're not alone in the universe.

I operate almost entirely like a stuffed iPod on random. Pride just came up. But not that U2 song. I'm not talking about individual songs - I mean themes. My iPod is stuffed with themes.

The whole fucking universe is split in two!

You know what I hate? When people attempt to pat themselves on the back by saying, "You'd be proud of me..." & then telling me something they are proud of. Hell, I'm amazed anyone gets up in the morning. My pride in you is already at its lowest possible point.

Unit 1-7 respond. Unit 1-7! I'm missed you so!

Listen Friday. You'll see. Pride goeth before a weekend.

Preface To Pride: Insomnia Is My Shame

Other people named "me." A late-night study in failure.

This Gary Dickerson makes more money than I'll ever see. & wow! Check out those stock options! He seems to be working with semiconductors.

This Gary Dickerson seems to live in Phoenix & takes nice pictures. (I like that it says "Gary Dickerson's Favorite Photos.")

This Gary Dickerson has written a helpful article called "Fluke Facts," & he should know, since he's "a member of the Manasquan Fishing Club, past president and vice president of JCAA, chairman of the Fluke Committee and a JCAA Trustee." Good for him!

This Gary Dickerson (with a picture) owns Dickerson Mechanical in & was elected President of the Flint Plumbing & Mechanical Contractors in 2005. Such accomplishments!

Yikes! If you scroll down on this page, you'll see two generations of Gary Dickersons involved in a lawsuit at the West Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals. I can only dream of what it might be all about.

There's a douchebag named Gary Dickerson apparently really involved at this radio station. Oh wait. That's me.

In this court case (another court case!), the issue is the state of Texas vs. William Speer, a prisoner who killed his fellow inmate, whose name was Gary Dickerson. That sucks.

This youngster named Gary Dickerson is located in "Glorius Gloucester."

About this Gary Dickerson, we discover "Gary Dickerson has been in the commercial furniture industry since 1992." Don't I know!

This Gary Dickerson is a sergeant in the DeKalb (Georgia) Police Department’s Vice Squad. There's a picture, too!

This Gary Dickerson teaches a class on glass bead making. No shit.

I could go on for hours but I should try to sleep. There are so many Gary Dickersons in the world! We should be in a club.

Zzzzzzz.

My Lover, My Vice Principal

- What do you think of my teeth?
- What about your teeth?
- They were just cleaned.
- Yeah?
- So?
- So what?
- Do they look clean?
- I guess so.
- Take a good look.
- You want me to inspect your teeth?
- Sure.
- Why?
- What if the hygienist did a shitty job?
- How am I supposed to know if the dental hygienist did a shitty job or not?
- Look, I picked up this pamphlet, & it says here: "Dental hygienists remove soft & hard deposits from teeth, teach patients how to practice good oral hygiene, & provide other preventive dental care." My hygienist didn't say dick about practicing good oral hygiene, but instead talked about American Idol for a half hour with her hands in my mouth. So I'm curious, did she in fact remove soft & hard deposits from my teeth, or even provide other preventive dental care? I can't look myself!
- Not even in a mirror?
- Can't you just take a look?
- I'm not a dentist! I'm not a dental hygienist!
- Have you ever seen like plague or other gunk on teeth?
- Sure, but...
- Then just be a pal & take a look.
- I don't know...
- If you do, I'll give you a treat.
- A treat?
- A treat.
- What kind of treat?
- You'll have to inspect my teeth to find out.
- Oh, what the hell.
- I'll open my mouth big & wide.
- Uh, as far as I can tell, OW! Motherfucker! You fucking bit me!
- That's the treat!
- Jesus Christ! What a fucking psycho! I didn't even tell you how your teeth were!
- I couldn't wait to give you the treat!

Downsides/Regression

Thanks for nice calls during Self Help Radio today. It's nice to be on the radio. You're nice to listen.

I am drinking whiskey late into a Friday evening watching "WKRP In Cincinatti" on DVD. Three thoughts come to mind.

1) Even though they don't feature the original music (as explained here), I'm not as disappointed by that as I should be - something about the generic music they use seems appropriate. Maybe because, having been a deejay for over a decade, I could never be so distracted & lackadaisical behind the board. The station must have had a LOT of dead air. But I am sad they cut clips from the aired shows because of the music. That sucks.

2) I loved radio as a kid, but this show probably fanned the flames of my desire to be a deejay more than anything else. But I can't tell you why. Nothing about the station, Johnny Fever, or Venus Flytrap resembles any kind of deejay I ever wanted to be.

3) I am sad to say that another childhood crush is dead. I don't find Jan Smithers anywhere near as Bailey Quarters as cute as I remember her. That's sad. Luckily, I still think Loni Anderson is hideous. Also, I never noticed Andy Travis' accent. Is it because I was raised in Texas?

That's all. Some thoughts. Gonna watch the ridiculous & crazy turkey episode now.