TODAY on Self Help Radio: Syd Barrett's musical masterpieces intrepreted by the ne'er-do-wells he influenced. Just so you can see his light shining through their work.
IT'S ALSO the first day of KOOP's Fall Membership Drive. I suggest you give all you can to the best radio station in Austin. Otherwise, what good are you?
I SHOULD ALSO MENTION I'll be a guest at the Coldtowne Theater's Stool Pigeon Improv Comedy Show tomorrow night (September 22) at 8pm. I'd love for you to come out & watch me be very nervous & ridiculous in front of you.
I DON'T KNOW WHY I keep capitalizing the beginnings of these sentences, but it does seem to make it more formal. Like every paragraph is the first paragraph of a book or something.
But it doesn't work the same way when you capitalize the last WORDS OF A SENTENCE.
It kinda makes you feel like you're being yelled at or somehow condescended to. That's icky.
BUT IF IT HAPPENS TO THE LAST SENTENCE, IT COMES ACROSS AS FINAL, LIKE IT'S A MORAL OR SOMETHING.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
I Dreamed I Saw Syd Barrett Last Night
He was eating ice cream, & was quite old. He seemed a little alarmed when he noticed I was looking at him. I'm pretty sure it was in Manchester, & not in Cambridge, where he seems to have lived most of his life, but I'm sure I was remembering a place from the most recent "Prime Suspect." I told my girlfriend, who was well in the dream but sick in real life, I said, "That's Syd Barrett." She wanted to go up to him & thank him for writing "The Gnome," but I told her he looked uncomfortable, so she waved & smiled & we turned to go. He waved back, to Magda, not to me, but did not smile.
The dream turned into a kind of scary adventure as I raced bicycles on the highway, but I wasn't on a bicycle, I was swimming through the asphalt, kind of kicking it to make myself go.
That has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, though, but I think you're sweet to have read this far.
The dream turned into a kind of scary adventure as I raced bicycles on the highway, but I wasn't on a bicycle, I was swimming through the asphalt, kind of kicking it to make myself go.
That has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, though, but I think you're sweet to have read this far.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Whither Syd Barrett?
The truth is, I don't really care much for Pink Floyd. (I know, even typing this blasphemy has caused waves of consternation to fly through college dorms rooms all over the world.) I knew about Syd Barrett before I knew exactly what his contribution to Pink Floyd was - his name was much, much more powerful in the musical circles I was investigating than the name "Pink Floyd" was. (I kinda wish the same was true with John Lennon's name. He's so much more than a "Beatle.")
Years after I had "The Madcap Laughs" & "Opel," some friends made me listen to "Piper At The Gates Of Dawn." I confess I wasn't as charmed as I should have been. "See Emily Play," "Vegetable Man," "Arnold Layne" - those songs were much better (on first listen) than the stuff on the record. I figured it had something to do the bad influence of the rest of the band (as if they didn't play on the singles!). It took a while for me to warm up to that disc.
More than anything, though, I was impressed by the folks who were influenced by Syd Barrett - Dan Treacy, Robyn Hitchcock, Martin Newell - people whose work seemed to begin at the very moment they heard a Syd Barrett song. How could I not eventually embrace the (almost literally) crazy genius whose ideas became dreams for some many musicians I loved?
I was going to do a Syd Barrett tribute show last year (he died, you know, in July 2006) but other things intruded - & since it's been a year, & since it'll be a Membership Drive show, it can be as special as I want it to be.
More about Syd is located here. I don't know if one should feel sad about his life - I think he understood how much he meant to everyone, at least vaguely so. Instead, we should celebrate the explosive, endless creativity he unleashed into the world. I, for one, will do it on Friday.
Years after I had "The Madcap Laughs" & "Opel," some friends made me listen to "Piper At The Gates Of Dawn." I confess I wasn't as charmed as I should have been. "See Emily Play," "Vegetable Man," "Arnold Layne" - those songs were much better (on first listen) than the stuff on the record. I figured it had something to do the bad influence of the rest of the band (as if they didn't play on the singles!). It took a while for me to warm up to that disc.
More than anything, though, I was impressed by the folks who were influenced by Syd Barrett - Dan Treacy, Robyn Hitchcock, Martin Newell - people whose work seemed to begin at the very moment they heard a Syd Barrett song. How could I not eventually embrace the (almost literally) crazy genius whose ideas became dreams for some many musicians I loved?
I was going to do a Syd Barrett tribute show last year (he died, you know, in July 2006) but other things intruded - & since it's been a year, & since it'll be a Membership Drive show, it can be as special as I want it to be.
More about Syd is located here. I don't know if one should feel sad about his life - I think he understood how much he meant to everyone, at least vaguely so. Instead, we should celebrate the explosive, endless creativity he unleashed into the world. I, for one, will do it on Friday.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Preface To The Syd Barrett Tribute: When To Use Wondercum?
I just got some spam in my gmail account & the email was titled "When To Use Wondercum?" I am not a Darren Stevens type so I don't pretend to know how to sell stuff to the people (although I'd totally marry a witch if I could & not be a total dillweed about it), but doesn't "Wondercum" sound like, well, super special ejaculate, & not a product that would perhaps increase your yield when you have an orgasm?
That seems like an unfortunate marketing decision. Perhaps they are getting advice from the Nigerian spammers, who don't seem to know I am unbeliever, since they write me, ask me for my bank account information, & talk a lot about God with me.
Another question is this: "Wondercum," assuming it's the latter explanation - something that makes a gentleman who's in the final stages of the sexual excitement process produce a lot more semen than his regular paltry load - is that something that's a real problem in the bedrooms of America? Maybe in the porn business, but in my experience, which is probably not terribly substantial, I've never had a partner say to me, "Is that ALL the sperm you're going to produce tonight? Where do you keep the Wondercum!"
This has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, whose life & music I'll be celebrating this week on the very first Fall 2007 Membership Drive Show, & who never had a single problem with the ladies. At least not before 1971.
That seems like an unfortunate marketing decision. Perhaps they are getting advice from the Nigerian spammers, who don't seem to know I am unbeliever, since they write me, ask me for my bank account information, & talk a lot about God with me.
Another question is this: "Wondercum," assuming it's the latter explanation - something that makes a gentleman who's in the final stages of the sexual excitement process produce a lot more semen than his regular paltry load - is that something that's a real problem in the bedrooms of America? Maybe in the porn business, but in my experience, which is probably not terribly substantial, I've never had a partner say to me, "Is that ALL the sperm you're going to produce tonight? Where do you keep the Wondercum!"
This has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, whose life & music I'll be celebrating this week on the very first Fall 2007 Membership Drive Show, & who never had a single problem with the ladies. At least not before 1971.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Your Big Tears Do Not Scare Me
Sailor! You've never loved like this before! Did we last meet at the Emmys?
Are you hoping that we'll have a fine romance like the first time ever? This could perhaps be true, if you're willing to listen to these three things I am wishing to be telling you:
1) There was once upon a time a radio show in which the host & two "guest-like" personages expounded upon listening. To listen, you really must just go to a web page called Self Help Radio Dot Net. It is perhaps easier than most, but more noisy than some. The show would be the show which originally aired September 14, 2007. It is called "Listening."
2) Your tastes may be more refined, like crude oil which isn't yet so crude. There are other radio shows at Self Help Radio Dot Net, one of which is brand new, as the original aired only just yesterday. It was a show called "Jamaican Gold" & it featured an imaginary Gary thought of "What reggae music were the punks of 1977-1979 listening to?" So I played some lovely roots reggae & dub & stuff. Yes, it's also available at Self Help Radio Dot Net.
3) If you live in the Austin area & would like to see Self Help Gary (as the host of this show calls himself & his self), he (which is me, so I don't know why I am talking about myself in the third person) (I mean, I'm not a professional athlete) I will be the "stool pigeon" for this event happening at the Coldtowne Theater this Saturday. It may be worthwhile to see me be so publicly humiliated. I will talk more about this (how could I not?) in the near future.
Go now! Listen to radio shows! See if I care!
Are you hoping that we'll have a fine romance like the first time ever? This could perhaps be true, if you're willing to listen to these three things I am wishing to be telling you:
1) There was once upon a time a radio show in which the host & two "guest-like" personages expounded upon listening. To listen, you really must just go to a web page called Self Help Radio Dot Net. It is perhaps easier than most, but more noisy than some. The show would be the show which originally aired September 14, 2007. It is called "Listening."
2) Your tastes may be more refined, like crude oil which isn't yet so crude. There are other radio shows at Self Help Radio Dot Net, one of which is brand new, as the original aired only just yesterday. It was a show called "Jamaican Gold" & it featured an imaginary Gary thought of "What reggae music were the punks of 1977-1979 listening to?" So I played some lovely roots reggae & dub & stuff. Yes, it's also available at Self Help Radio Dot Net.
3) If you live in the Austin area & would like to see Self Help Gary (as the host of this show calls himself & his self), he (which is me, so I don't know why I am talking about myself in the third person) (I mean, I'm not a professional athlete) I will be the "stool pigeon" for this event happening at the Coldtowne Theater this Saturday. It may be worthwhile to see me be so publicly humiliated. I will talk more about this (how could I not?) in the near future.
Go now! Listen to radio shows! See if I care!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Tensions High! Start A Fire!
Hello, diligent workers. Do not be alarmed. This is not a drill. Arms outstretched, make sure you have a widow's space between you. I won't imagine you're talking today.
We called everyone in the factory floor to discuss hand-holding & other deviance within the ranks. Surely this must be opposed. What would your guardian angel think? I believe we hold each other responsible in this manner.
Further, the management would like to interest everyone. This is not nearly as energetic as one might suppose. As an example, let us bring out our top of the line. You see? Everyone here had a hand or foot in that.
As the morning turns to day, assuredly does the bone turn to fossil. We live ever so quirkily on a shifting conveyor belt of duty & responsibility. The alcohol takes what the Lord gives away. You know this.
Why then complicate the abject with the objectification of your fellow worker? Must we make stuffy government write the rules for us? They already have your dental records & your pet's DNA.
As management's eyes in the showroom & the restroom, we only want to stress what we have received on company letterhead: do not make us come down there & scold you. Let go of each other & hold hands with work!
You may take a few breaths before you return to your assigned tasks. We will not speak of this again. Tissues are being handed out by your supervisors. I think I got something in my eye. Excuse me.
We called everyone in the factory floor to discuss hand-holding & other deviance within the ranks. Surely this must be opposed. What would your guardian angel think? I believe we hold each other responsible in this manner.
Further, the management would like to interest everyone. This is not nearly as energetic as one might suppose. As an example, let us bring out our top of the line. You see? Everyone here had a hand or foot in that.
As the morning turns to day, assuredly does the bone turn to fossil. We live ever so quirkily on a shifting conveyor belt of duty & responsibility. The alcohol takes what the Lord gives away. You know this.
Why then complicate the abject with the objectification of your fellow worker? Must we make stuffy government write the rules for us? They already have your dental records & your pet's DNA.
As management's eyes in the showroom & the restroom, we only want to stress what we have received on company letterhead: do not make us come down there & scold you. Let go of each other & hold hands with work!
You may take a few breaths before you return to your assigned tasks. We will not speak of this again. Tissues are being handed out by your supervisors. I think I got something in my eye. Excuse me.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Whither Listening?
In the land of the ears, the headphoned are sad. Ears were not born with headphones, but some have found them. Unable to control content or volume, these ears despair, & wish & hope for someone to help release them from the headphone bondage.
In the land of the eyes, there are some who never blink. "Dry-Eyes" they are called, but they do see everything. They see the sadness of the headphoned ears. They would tell the others, but the others communicate with blinks. & the Dry-Eyes never blink.
In the land of the noses, something smells strange. It's not a familiar smell - the noses love all the regular smells, from the sweet to the sour - this is a bad kind of strange smell. They lift their nostrils & wonder - is it coming from the land of the ears?
In the land of the mouths, there is singing, talking, eating, brushing of teeth. They don't notice anything. They never stop moving.
& in the land of the hands, the scene is touching. The hands care. The hand feel their way around, gently brushing fingers past mouths, noses, eyes, even the ears. The ears feel strange! The hands gingerly lift the headphones off the ears. The ears are free!
When the ears gratefully gather around the hands that rescued them, the hands - if only for an instant - can hear. The curious nostrils find their way to the curious celebration, as do the Dry-Eyes. The jumble is a party & as they congregate, the nostrils can see & the ears can smell & eyes can feel & of course the hands can hear.
& all of them think, in their freedom & joy, "Holy mother of fuck, don't those mouths ever shut the hell up?"
In the land of the eyes, there are some who never blink. "Dry-Eyes" they are called, but they do see everything. They see the sadness of the headphoned ears. They would tell the others, but the others communicate with blinks. & the Dry-Eyes never blink.
In the land of the noses, something smells strange. It's not a familiar smell - the noses love all the regular smells, from the sweet to the sour - this is a bad kind of strange smell. They lift their nostrils & wonder - is it coming from the land of the ears?
In the land of the mouths, there is singing, talking, eating, brushing of teeth. They don't notice anything. They never stop moving.
& in the land of the hands, the scene is touching. The hands care. The hand feel their way around, gently brushing fingers past mouths, noses, eyes, even the ears. The ears feel strange! The hands gingerly lift the headphones off the ears. The ears are free!
When the ears gratefully gather around the hands that rescued them, the hands - if only for an instant - can hear. The curious nostrils find their way to the curious celebration, as do the Dry-Eyes. The jumble is a party & as they congregate, the nostrils can see & the ears can smell & eyes can feel & of course the hands can hear.
& all of them think, in their freedom & joy, "Holy mother of fuck, don't those mouths ever shut the hell up?"
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Preface To Listening: What About The Other Four Senses? Not "Radio Friendly"?
This is coming to Austin: the Austin Booger City Booger Limits Festival Booger. Except for maybe the Decemberists, whom I've seen live, & the National, whom I'd like to see at a smaller venue, I have zero interest in the band coming to this. I have actually zero interest in the event itself. I have only been to one or two "festivals" in my life, &, except for the fact that nice people gave me nice drugs there without really knowing me, it was hot, noisy, boring, & smelled like a toilet more often than not. So what's the draw?
I have a theory.
Life on the lonesome prairie was kind of lonesome, what with the prairie being big & wide & expansive, & also not a lot of people around, unless you count prairie dogs as people (& remember, dogs don't count prairie dogs as dogs), & so when there was a house fire, or a quilting bee, or a lynching, or a bible-beat-off, or some other community event, it was worth the seventeen day journey to the nearest town to just hang out. You might could even to get a bath.
All human societies, you will recall from our earlier lessons, began on the lonesome prairie. Except for the mountain folk who dwell beyond the night. But then they never make it to music festivals, so fuck them.
Years have passed, & the drugs have become more illegal, but even so, we live in the lonesome prairie of our own lives. Since we haven't yet discovered how to share our thoughts (or even, really, how to throw our voices), we are trapped evolutionarily on the lonesome prairily, & music festivals, even if they have to bring Bob Dylan back from the dead, remind us of those times.
Also, we're kind of snobbish fucks & we're envious of everything, so most certainly a town full of moronic hipsters will be ejaculating all over themselves for months for having "seen" so many "big names" at one time. It's as easy as Cheney hunting quail for them. It doesn't require any real work on their part, but now they can say, "Oh, sure, I've seen BLEH." I'm sure some of them might even get to have some superstar snort cocaine out of their ass. Those people are COOL.
But I still can't see the draw, so please, you can come to my slightly bloated city & make use of our facilities, but remember: you're really just a forlorn settler who's spent the majority of your life in a badly-built cabin in the middle of nowhere, scared most of the time about hurtful enemies & monstrous beasties, & all that the City Booger Austin Booger Limits Booger Festival is to you a chance to get away from the lonesome prairie which is your soul. You poor fucker.
What a theory! Just by writing it I got accepted into graduate school! Thanks boring trendoids! I hope to milk your pathetic posturing & grubby grasping into irrelevant pop culture paperbacks that you'll unironically embrace! Hooray!
I have a theory.
Life on the lonesome prairie was kind of lonesome, what with the prairie being big & wide & expansive, & also not a lot of people around, unless you count prairie dogs as people (& remember, dogs don't count prairie dogs as dogs), & so when there was a house fire, or a quilting bee, or a lynching, or a bible-beat-off, or some other community event, it was worth the seventeen day journey to the nearest town to just hang out. You might could even to get a bath.
All human societies, you will recall from our earlier lessons, began on the lonesome prairie. Except for the mountain folk who dwell beyond the night. But then they never make it to music festivals, so fuck them.
Years have passed, & the drugs have become more illegal, but even so, we live in the lonesome prairie of our own lives. Since we haven't yet discovered how to share our thoughts (or even, really, how to throw our voices), we are trapped evolutionarily on the lonesome prairily, & music festivals, even if they have to bring Bob Dylan back from the dead, remind us of those times.
Also, we're kind of snobbish fucks & we're envious of everything, so most certainly a town full of moronic hipsters will be ejaculating all over themselves for months for having "seen" so many "big names" at one time. It's as easy as Cheney hunting quail for them. It doesn't require any real work on their part, but now they can say, "Oh, sure, I've seen BLEH." I'm sure some of them might even get to have some superstar snort cocaine out of their ass. Those people are COOL.
But I still can't see the draw, so please, you can come to my slightly bloated city & make use of our facilities, but remember: you're really just a forlorn settler who's spent the majority of your life in a badly-built cabin in the middle of nowhere, scared most of the time about hurtful enemies & monstrous beasties, & all that the City Booger Austin Booger Limits Booger Festival is to you a chance to get away from the lonesome prairie which is your soul. You poor fucker.
What a theory! Just by writing it I got accepted into graduate school! Thanks boring trendoids! I hope to milk your pathetic posturing & grubby grasping into irrelevant pop culture paperbacks that you'll unironically embrace! Hooray!
Monday, September 10, 2007
My Brain Has Its Own Holes
In 1388, on the coast of France, then called Germany, three Pristinian Monks wearing dog collars & x-ray spex decided they no longer believed in a "catholic" god. They wanted laughter, fun, adventure, ha cha cha cha! & they certainly the fuck weren't going to get it in 14th century Germany.
They wrote a book, which they called "the Bible" - they wanted to piss people off - they were, in fact, the first performance artists - which to this day smells a lot like stale beer. The three monks outlined a festive way of living which can be enjoyed with only a minimal of fuss &, with aspirin, only a smallish hangover.
That philosophy became unpopular when priests with scary weapons killed the three monks, but it has experienced a resurgence today among born-again villains & crazy hippie children. Though no one outside the inner circle has seen "the Bible," leaked pages have been recovered, only to be thrown down in disgust when people realize they're called "leaked pages" because someone took a leak on them. So far no one has been eager to see the pages which are claimed to have be "wiped out."
This has nothing, however, to do with Self Help Radio, the radio show which, rather than spend a long time researching a topic & sharing deep, important knowledge on the air, took the easy way out last week, & totally faked a show about fakery. & no one was fooled!
Don't believe me? Listen for yourself at selfhelpradio.net. The entire show is there & shall be for a while, so please use it in whatever lawsuit you're currently involved with. Standard super saver shipping restrictions apply.
The story of the monks, by the way, is NOT a fake. It's a lie. Tell me what the difference is.
They wrote a book, which they called "the Bible" - they wanted to piss people off - they were, in fact, the first performance artists - which to this day smells a lot like stale beer. The three monks outlined a festive way of living which can be enjoyed with only a minimal of fuss &, with aspirin, only a smallish hangover.
That philosophy became unpopular when priests with scary weapons killed the three monks, but it has experienced a resurgence today among born-again villains & crazy hippie children. Though no one outside the inner circle has seen "the Bible," leaked pages have been recovered, only to be thrown down in disgust when people realize they're called "leaked pages" because someone took a leak on them. So far no one has been eager to see the pages which are claimed to have be "wiped out."
This has nothing, however, to do with Self Help Radio, the radio show which, rather than spend a long time researching a topic & sharing deep, important knowledge on the air, took the easy way out last week, & totally faked a show about fakery. & no one was fooled!
Don't believe me? Listen for yourself at selfhelpradio.net. The entire show is there & shall be for a while, so please use it in whatever lawsuit you're currently involved with. Standard super saver shipping restrictions apply.
The story of the monks, by the way, is NOT a fake. It's a lie. Tell me what the difference is.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Dioxin For The Future Now!
Self Help Radio will be heard today on the radio. This is an incredibly good bit of luck, as I have spent a large amount of time listening to music in the hopes of playing it for unwitting strangers this very day. But the best bit of luck involves one of my favorite bands. They are a local band but they sound like they're from the future. Not that they sound like some space-rock, Devo-esque, or Star Wars Creature Cantina thing - or even Klingon opera, although this particular one is obviously an influence - this particular band sounds like they're from a magical future where every bit of music you hear is good & radio shows like mine are easy to make because all choices sound wonderful.
The band is called Luxuriator, & although they have told me they're imaginary, there's a realness in how much I really, really like them.
Why do I gush so? Because I have been thinking about a show about fakery - which I'm doing today - & out of the blue, the pink & blue Official Luxuriator Courier Moped left a song on my doorstep. Usually, it's a Flight Of The Conchords song - or maybe prank calls made to Robyn Hitchcock - but no, this time it was a new Luxuriator song! I had to dig out my eight-track - they like to give me songs on eight-track - but dig I did, discovering a song called "Fake=Fake."
Imagine my freaky joy when I realized that a theme I was working on had coincided with a song written by the best band in Austin! I was convinced they had broken into my house, so I changed the locks, drugged the cats & dusted the house for prints. (I found a really nice print of Van Gogh's Hairlips that I thought my girlfriend had thrown away.)
Now, of course, the show is coming, & I just wanted to say, "Hey! You might could hear it on their myspace page, but Self Help Radio is proud to play Luxuriator today!" I am pretty damn excited! You must be too!
That's today during Self Help Radio's idiotic examination of "fakery" from 4:30 to 6:00 pm CST on 91.7 fm KOOP, live on the web at koop.org & available archived over the weekend on selfhelpradio.net. If you miss it, you might be unable to digest beans for a week.
The band is called Luxuriator, & although they have told me they're imaginary, there's a realness in how much I really, really like them.
Why do I gush so? Because I have been thinking about a show about fakery - which I'm doing today - & out of the blue, the pink & blue Official Luxuriator Courier Moped left a song on my doorstep. Usually, it's a Flight Of The Conchords song - or maybe prank calls made to Robyn Hitchcock - but no, this time it was a new Luxuriator song! I had to dig out my eight-track - they like to give me songs on eight-track - but dig I did, discovering a song called "Fake=Fake."
Imagine my freaky joy when I realized that a theme I was working on had coincided with a song written by the best band in Austin! I was convinced they had broken into my house, so I changed the locks, drugged the cats & dusted the house for prints. (I found a really nice print of Van Gogh's Hairlips that I thought my girlfriend had thrown away.)
Now, of course, the show is coming, & I just wanted to say, "Hey! You might could hear it on their myspace page, but Self Help Radio is proud to play Luxuriator today!" I am pretty damn excited! You must be too!
That's today during Self Help Radio's idiotic examination of "fakery" from 4:30 to 6:00 pm CST on 91.7 fm KOOP, live on the web at koop.org & available archived over the weekend on selfhelpradio.net. If you miss it, you might be unable to digest beans for a week.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Why Not Spend Some Time In Your Own Thinking?
Good day. As propmaster for the "Self Help Radio," it behooves us all for gradually requesting the compensation required to adequately instill in the listener &/or reactor of quality audiophonic experience what we in the business call "understanding." There are, to avoid the constant activation of self-defeating jargon, what experts call "ten important steps" in a contrary assimiliation process for the betterment of a "Self Help Radio" as well as a "listener modification process." They would be, in order of numerical:
1) Condescension. Surely in what many would call a turbulent egotistic existence you must facilitate your own deference up to but not necessarily including hubris. We require this of any guest who may find him or herself within the confines of normal &/or common sensical entertainment adventures.
2) Carriage, or what the ancients called "mien." What's mien mean? It doesn't imply anything mean - in many ways, the average consumptive of the "Self Help Radio" merely gratifies the hitherto in what can only be described as a antithetical manner.
3) Craft. From a purely simplistic standpoint, aesthetic implies action, whereas passivity implies traction. For the engaged reporter of the "Self Help Radio" an appreciation of source & formatting is otherwise obligatory.
4) Cash. In case you want a snack or something.
5) Candor. We must not specifically be honest, but a measurable amount of embarrassingly confessional surely peppers the soup in whatsoever nakedness should be displayed to the public's chagrin.
Among these are of course other considerations which we shall not cardinally number for scriptural purposes. These would perhaps best be summarized:
6) Creature Comforts. For an empty house is a lonely house, which cannot specifically be called a home.
7) Celerity. For a show which is timed, one might sometimes feel a need to feed the seed of speed. Technically or counterclockwise.
8) Cursory brevity wit. As it means in the unoriginal Latin.
9) Castigation. Formerly the list specifically hinted at "confession," but a consultant confirmed the corruptness of the current clergical community (then & now), so a non-religious, if not entirely materialistic, form of self-reproach is to be preferred if not entirely designated.
10) Conference Call. Are you free Friday?
As the goalkeeper in the fundamental baseball grid of the "Self Help Radio," I welcome the extraneous & the commentary. I hope we've learned our lesson today & surely tomorrow whoever tunes in will have more of a sense of the gist than those whose reading skills, while languishing, have failed to meet the meagerest of expectations for online survey taking.
Please thank yourself for your participation.
1) Condescension. Surely in what many would call a turbulent egotistic existence you must facilitate your own deference up to but not necessarily including hubris. We require this of any guest who may find him or herself within the confines of normal &/or common sensical entertainment adventures.
2) Carriage, or what the ancients called "mien." What's mien mean? It doesn't imply anything mean - in many ways, the average consumptive of the "Self Help Radio" merely gratifies the hitherto in what can only be described as a antithetical manner.
3) Craft. From a purely simplistic standpoint, aesthetic implies action, whereas passivity implies traction. For the engaged reporter of the "Self Help Radio" an appreciation of source & formatting is otherwise obligatory.
4) Cash. In case you want a snack or something.
5) Candor. We must not specifically be honest, but a measurable amount of embarrassingly confessional surely peppers the soup in whatsoever nakedness should be displayed to the public's chagrin.
Among these are of course other considerations which we shall not cardinally number for scriptural purposes. These would perhaps best be summarized:
6) Creature Comforts. For an empty house is a lonely house, which cannot specifically be called a home.
7) Celerity. For a show which is timed, one might sometimes feel a need to feed the seed of speed. Technically or counterclockwise.
8) Cursory brevity wit. As it means in the unoriginal Latin.
9) Castigation. Formerly the list specifically hinted at "confession," but a consultant confirmed the corruptness of the current clergical community (then & now), so a non-religious, if not entirely materialistic, form of self-reproach is to be preferred if not entirely designated.
10) Conference Call. Are you free Friday?
As the goalkeeper in the fundamental baseball grid of the "Self Help Radio," I welcome the extraneous & the commentary. I hope we've learned our lesson today & surely tomorrow whoever tunes in will have more of a sense of the gist than those whose reading skills, while languishing, have failed to meet the meagerest of expectations for online survey taking.
Please thank yourself for your participation.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Whither Fakery?
A newspaper headline in my gmailbox grabs my attention: "Once ravaged by war, now vacation spots". Do you need any more proof that life is an illusion?
Self Help Radio this week will celebrate & berate the deliberately not real.
I am not entirely sure why. But I am self conscious about it. Stop looking at me. These are my real feelings.
Self Help Radio this week will celebrate & berate the deliberately not real.
I am not entirely sure why. But I am self conscious about it. Stop looking at me. These are my real feelings.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Preface To Fakery: I Am Not Faking Being Sick! I Promise!
But if you are in bed too because the beginning September made you ill, you can enjoy lots of sickening Gary on the radio over at the Self Help Radio archive page. I disturbingly did three extra radio shows this weekend, & it nearly killed me. So you can enjoy a Self Help Radio that's all about the indiepop, an Ear Candy that's also all about the indiepop (plus a song by Burt "Robin" Ward), an episode of This Great White North featuring Canadian postpunk, new wave & punk from thirty years ago, & finally an episode of the House Call all about the demon alcohol that exacerabated my illness. What fun!
Now I must take pills & get some sleep. Please enjoy the radio shows.
Now I must take pills & get some sleep. Please enjoy the radio shows.
Friday, August 31, 2007
An Embarrassment Of Garys
I will be laboring on Labor Day.
TODAY FRIDAY THE 31st I shall be doing my regular Self Help Radio gig. From 4:30 to 6pm. On today's show, I will shoot a man.
TOMORROW SATURDAY THE 1st I shall be sitting in on Ear Candy, playing indiepop in a totally not gay way. Saturday from 5 to 7pm. On tomorrow's show, a woman will shoot me.
SUNDAY THE 2nd I shall be sitting in on This Great White North, & my substitute show will feature Canadian New Wave, Postpunk & Power Punk from the late 70's & early 80's. Sunday from 7 to 8:30pm. A Canadian person will not be shot on Sunday's show, because they don't have the gun problems we have in America.
MONDAY THE 3rd LABOR DAY I will be sitting in on the House Call, playing indie musics about drinking, since, besides radio, that's what I'll be doing most during the weekend. Monday from 3:30 - 4:30pm. On this show, I will shoot myself. Not on purpose. I'll be cleaning the gun & it'll just go off.
Streaming live at the times mentioned above CST at koop.org. Archived as soon as possible at selfhelpradio.net.
Listen, & your mind will be changed about gun control!
TODAY FRIDAY THE 31st I shall be doing my regular Self Help Radio gig. From 4:30 to 6pm. On today's show, I will shoot a man.
TOMORROW SATURDAY THE 1st I shall be sitting in on Ear Candy, playing indiepop in a totally not gay way. Saturday from 5 to 7pm. On tomorrow's show, a woman will shoot me.
SUNDAY THE 2nd I shall be sitting in on This Great White North, & my substitute show will feature Canadian New Wave, Postpunk & Power Punk from the late 70's & early 80's. Sunday from 7 to 8:30pm. A Canadian person will not be shot on Sunday's show, because they don't have the gun problems we have in America.
MONDAY THE 3rd LABOR DAY I will be sitting in on the House Call, playing indie musics about drinking, since, besides radio, that's what I'll be doing most during the weekend. Monday from 3:30 - 4:30pm. On this show, I will shoot myself. Not on purpose. I'll be cleaning the gun & it'll just go off.
Streaming live at the times mentioned above CST at koop.org. Archived as soon as possible at selfhelpradio.net.
Listen, & your mind will be changed about gun control!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Damn Junkies!
Lizabeth writes to me: Gary, you get angry a lot or you pretend to be. What's going on?
She wrote me, by the way, on myspace, which is a store for lovers. She wrote me even though she doesn't want to be my "friend." Or she at the very least didn't send a "friend request." & she wants to know why I'm mad?
It's not well-known but I haven't yet found my voice, &, as such, I am often disarmingly confused. One day I write like Ernest Faulkner, the other like Kurt Barthelme. Then, without knowing it, suddenly Grace Paley dies & I feel sad because I still dream, even though I am currently under half her age, of making out with her every time I read her writing. Damn it! Grace Paley never knew I existed! Someone, please, set me up on a blind date with Lorrie Moore!
Anyway, even though it's more regret & sadness that rule my world, it's true that I am wholly helpless in the face of my obscurity, my lack of talent, my inability to get any better at "deejaying" &, for that matter, life, in such a way that occasionally I feel that the only rational response is blind rage. I'm sure you understand.
Having said that, though, I am never really angry when I write on this blog. All I feel is love. Love & hunger. Love, hunger & some kind of French feeling for which only the Germans have a word. Also I feel nauseous, but mainly that's the way you suck your fingers when you read this. I know, it was sexy when you were nineteen, but everything is sexy when you're nineteen - now it's gross because everyone knows you never wash your hands when you go to the bathroom. Seriously, what would it take? A few seconds? Do you really think bacteria are evolving because of your actions?
Whatever. I'm not angry. I'm just dumb. Get used to it.
She wrote me, by the way, on myspace, which is a store for lovers. She wrote me even though she doesn't want to be my "friend." Or she at the very least didn't send a "friend request." & she wants to know why I'm mad?
It's not well-known but I haven't yet found my voice, &, as such, I am often disarmingly confused. One day I write like Ernest Faulkner, the other like Kurt Barthelme. Then, without knowing it, suddenly Grace Paley dies & I feel sad because I still dream, even though I am currently under half her age, of making out with her every time I read her writing. Damn it! Grace Paley never knew I existed! Someone, please, set me up on a blind date with Lorrie Moore!
Anyway, even though it's more regret & sadness that rule my world, it's true that I am wholly helpless in the face of my obscurity, my lack of talent, my inability to get any better at "deejaying" &, for that matter, life, in such a way that occasionally I feel that the only rational response is blind rage. I'm sure you understand.
Having said that, though, I am never really angry when I write on this blog. All I feel is love. Love & hunger. Love, hunger & some kind of French feeling for which only the Germans have a word. Also I feel nauseous, but mainly that's the way you suck your fingers when you read this. I know, it was sexy when you were nineteen, but everything is sexy when you're nineteen - now it's gross because everyone knows you never wash your hands when you go to the bathroom. Seriously, what would it take? A few seconds? Do you really think bacteria are evolving because of your actions?
Whatever. I'm not angry. I'm just dumb. Get used to it.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Whither Indiepop A To Z # 10?
The demand for chocolate - shall we call it hunger? - goes unabated. We must set out to look for it, arming ourselves inconveniently, knowing there are those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate for those of us who truly love the chocolate. They must be stopped &, if possible, utterly destroyed.
Now that we know what we want, we shall seek it. But where could the chocolate be? It is not on the radio, it is not on the TV. It is perhaps under the fingernails or in the pockets of children, but we will not want that chocolate. We want chocolate safely waiting behind wrappers. Alas! The chocolate is enslaved, & it can be bought! Who enslaves the chocolate? Those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate!
Hmmm.
It occurs to me that the phrase "those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate" could be used to describe a lot of people, including many people I know (you know who you are). What's this? I am getting feedback?!?
In a critique of this piece, which I haven't finished writing yet, neo-Marxist author William Stink asserts that I am trying to equate the "hunger for chocolate" with the working class's need for revolution while the wormy-hearted are obviously the bourgeoise. The exact opposite is being discussed on the famous website, Conservative Douchebag, where people who don't get out much & enjoy masturbating to photoshopped pictures of Dick Cheney finger-banging George W Bush have decided that the chocolate lovers are hungry capitalists waiting for deregulation, while the wormhearts are liberal bloggers. I am sad to say no one's right, since I haven't finished writing this yet. Sorry.
Where was I? Fuck. Have I ever told you how really, really hard it is to plot a story? I had a terrific plot for this all worked out, including a very O. Henryesque twist ending involving the narcotic properties of chocolate, & also a very moving description of heartworm to encourage lazy dog owners to take better care of their pets, but when I started to get reviews of today's blog, I completely forgot how the middle part went.
In a sense, I've confined my undeveloped story & its undeveloped characters to a kind of "literary" limbo. Because now I must go home. & I'm reading now from a blogger named Frog Mouth that my excuses here are actually an attempt to be self-reflexive & "tear down the computer screen" that separates me from my audience. Ha! He doesn't know that I don't have an audience! What a maroon!
Only one long blogger - my mother, writing in her secret blog that no one in the family knows about - has bothered to ask the most important question, which I find touching: What the hell does this have to do with Self Help Radio & indiepop? She has some ideas. If you can find her blog, you'll be mesmerized.
Now that we know what we want, we shall seek it. But where could the chocolate be? It is not on the radio, it is not on the TV. It is perhaps under the fingernails or in the pockets of children, but we will not want that chocolate. We want chocolate safely waiting behind wrappers. Alas! The chocolate is enslaved, & it can be bought! Who enslaves the chocolate? Those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate!
Hmmm.
It occurs to me that the phrase "those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate" could be used to describe a lot of people, including many people I know (you know who you are). What's this? I am getting feedback?!?
In a critique of this piece, which I haven't finished writing yet, neo-Marxist author William Stink asserts that I am trying to equate the "hunger for chocolate" with the working class's need for revolution while the wormy-hearted are obviously the bourgeoise. The exact opposite is being discussed on the famous website, Conservative Douchebag, where people who don't get out much & enjoy masturbating to photoshopped pictures of Dick Cheney finger-banging George W Bush have decided that the chocolate lovers are hungry capitalists waiting for deregulation, while the wormhearts are liberal bloggers. I am sad to say no one's right, since I haven't finished writing this yet. Sorry.
Where was I? Fuck. Have I ever told you how really, really hard it is to plot a story? I had a terrific plot for this all worked out, including a very O. Henryesque twist ending involving the narcotic properties of chocolate, & also a very moving description of heartworm to encourage lazy dog owners to take better care of their pets, but when I started to get reviews of today's blog, I completely forgot how the middle part went.
In a sense, I've confined my undeveloped story & its undeveloped characters to a kind of "literary" limbo. Because now I must go home. & I'm reading now from a blogger named Frog Mouth that my excuses here are actually an attempt to be self-reflexive & "tear down the computer screen" that separates me from my audience. Ha! He doesn't know that I don't have an audience! What a maroon!
Only one long blogger - my mother, writing in her secret blog that no one in the family knows about - has bothered to ask the most important question, which I find touching: What the hell does this have to do with Self Help Radio & indiepop? She has some ideas. If you can find her blog, you'll be mesmerized.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Preface To Indiepop A To Z # 10 - or is it 10? - how long do I intend to keep this up?
I am swamped like swampland today. I am tired like bald tires today. I am sleepy like a sleepy person today. I am writing like a person who has to write things anyway. Why do I feel that way? I feel that way because I have feelings that are that way.
Or does life truly exist in a lifelike fashion? Can we hope for events that are eventful? Do we want tales that are told? Songs that are sung? Should it be so chancey to take a chance? Do we requires skills if we are to be skillful? Not, you may say, if it's your fears that are making you afraid.
In any case, I am looking forward to planning my radio show this week. I have been mulling over thinking about the "theme," which is a continuation of the Indiepop A To Z which I have been doing every two months, or at least bimonthly, this year. I could say that I want to tell you how good it will be, only I humbly admit I am too modest for such a thing.
As one may attempt to try, while others may fail to lose, surely I am simply starting to begin. If you can't understand it, maybe you can at least make sense of it. Yes? Yeah.
Or does life truly exist in a lifelike fashion? Can we hope for events that are eventful? Do we want tales that are told? Songs that are sung? Should it be so chancey to take a chance? Do we requires skills if we are to be skillful? Not, you may say, if it's your fears that are making you afraid.
In any case, I am looking forward to planning my radio show this week. I have been mulling over thinking about the "theme," which is a continuation of the Indiepop A To Z which I have been doing every two months, or at least bimonthly, this year. I could say that I want to tell you how good it will be, only I humbly admit I am too modest for such a thing.
As one may attempt to try, while others may fail to lose, surely I am simply starting to begin. If you can't understand it, maybe you can at least make sense of it. Yes? Yeah.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Alberto Gonzales Was A Real Fine Lady
My Department Of Justice is a sad Department Of Justice today. It is sad like Iraq, sad like Laura Bush's special naughty place. For our friend Alberto Gonzales, a lovely woman & an accomplished ventriloquist, has left the Department Of Justice because of conflicts with her European tour with Hillary McDuffle. (Also, she's been romantically linked with famous faux lesbian Russkies Tatu, which has made her marriage as sad as Afghanistan, as sad as the man who asked Jenna Bush to wed him.) We here at the Self Help Radio blog, who loved her in the Diane Keaton vehicle "Hollywood Friskies," & who is desperately looking forward to her action-film-genre-slash-obligatory-Quentin-Tarentino-crossover-event, "Obvious Cultural Reference," we must admit we are sad, too. Sad as North Korea, sad as the privates in David Petraeus' tent when he's been on the bottle, working on his September report.
We're almost too sad to mention that our unworthy radio show, known variously as "Self Help Radio," had a show on Friday about the jukebox, & that show is available for listening to in its entirety at selfhelpradio.net. But we know you're going to be sitting at home, like we are, listening to the wonderful mix CD that Alberto Gonzales once made us, which consisted only of "Send In The Clowns" on all twenty-five tracks, with the middle one - track thirteen - a beautiful karaoke version by Alberto herself.
God DAMN she was a real lady.
We're almost too sad to mention that our unworthy radio show, known variously as "Self Help Radio," had a show on Friday about the jukebox, & that show is available for listening to in its entirety at selfhelpradio.net. But we know you're going to be sitting at home, like we are, listening to the wonderful mix CD that Alberto Gonzales once made us, which consisted only of "Send In The Clowns" on all twenty-five tracks, with the middle one - track thirteen - a beautiful karaoke version by Alberto herself.
God DAMN she was a real lady.
Friday, August 24, 2007
The Slow, Sad Decline Of Our Friend The Carpenter Ant
It may surprise our religious friends that the savior of the insect species was not ever a carpenter ant. No, the Insect Messiah will probably not come from colony species such as ants, bees, termites or Scientologists. As we pore over our insect religious texts, we understand that the Insect Messiah will travel long distances to preach to worker ants & worker bees, often outside busy nests, mainly attempting to liberate the workers from their queens. Queens in such cases are perhaps equivalent to the ancient god-kings of the old city-states. In any case, the Insect Messiah has her work cut out for her.
But one needn't be terribly concerned with the Insect Messiah to feel both pity & condescension toward the carpenter ant. This particular species of ant is particularly pathetic. For many hundreds of years now, its culture & literature have languished, & no scholar in her right mind disputes the reason: the shift from living in rotting logs to living in rotting human domiciles. What was once a thriving ant society, with dance, philosophical discussion, & hearty persecution of the drones, has now become a docile, dull totalitarian hive which spends its few leisure hours listening to Fox News on the television. Carpenter ants cannot vote, of course, but studies have shown that if they could vote, they'd to a single ant vote for the Butt Party. This, in contravention to many millenia as free thinkers & robust political gadabouts. It's enough to make the scholar weep for insectkind.
It's no surprise an industry has sprung up making big bucks on the control & eradication of the carpenter ant - they have truly become unpleasant creatures, boring to be around, simple-minded, dull-witted, tiring. If we are to believe their own literature - which has, fortunately, been saved by spiders in their complex spider libraries - these creatures were once the bon vivants of at least the Formicidae world, although their charm even now surpasses that of the boorish wasps, but that's not saying much. One can, if it so suits one, weep for their cultural programming & their capitulation to it, but instead it seems to many that, on the eve of the return of the Insect Messiah, we must move to other, more fertile areas of insect progress & scholarship, & leave those lost causes behind, praising their contributions in the past but regretting the fact that, when the insects rise up to consume the world, the carpenter ant will be not be an integral part of the revolution, but, alas, will find itself among the consumed.
But one needn't be terribly concerned with the Insect Messiah to feel both pity & condescension toward the carpenter ant. This particular species of ant is particularly pathetic. For many hundreds of years now, its culture & literature have languished, & no scholar in her right mind disputes the reason: the shift from living in rotting logs to living in rotting human domiciles. What was once a thriving ant society, with dance, philosophical discussion, & hearty persecution of the drones, has now become a docile, dull totalitarian hive which spends its few leisure hours listening to Fox News on the television. Carpenter ants cannot vote, of course, but studies have shown that if they could vote, they'd to a single ant vote for the Butt Party. This, in contravention to many millenia as free thinkers & robust political gadabouts. It's enough to make the scholar weep for insectkind.
It's no surprise an industry has sprung up making big bucks on the control & eradication of the carpenter ant - they have truly become unpleasant creatures, boring to be around, simple-minded, dull-witted, tiring. If we are to believe their own literature - which has, fortunately, been saved by spiders in their complex spider libraries - these creatures were once the bon vivants of at least the Formicidae world, although their charm even now surpasses that of the boorish wasps, but that's not saying much. One can, if it so suits one, weep for their cultural programming & their capitulation to it, but instead it seems to many that, on the eve of the return of the Insect Messiah, we must move to other, more fertile areas of insect progress & scholarship, & leave those lost causes behind, praising their contributions in the past but regretting the fact that, when the insects rise up to consume the world, the carpenter ant will be not be an integral part of the revolution, but, alas, will find itself among the consumed.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
No One Is Purtier Than You
What would you say to my twitchy eye? Would you try to poke it with your stick? Would you be able to stop the nerves that make it flick & jump so? With your magic stick?
My twitchy eye can't be bothered with your half-assed alchemy. It does not fucking believe you. You know why? You & your poking stick are not threatening, no matter how much you wave it about or how many stories you tell about it. My twitchy eye twitches with skepticism.
Frankly, my twitchy eye thinks you're a twit. Furthermore, my twitchy regards with some nausea the fact that you desperately need people to be afraid of your stick. Your stick is your diaper & your mama's teat. Grow the fuck up, mutters my twitchy eye under its breath. It can't stand the look of you.
Do you really think my eye is twitching because of you? Ha! Ha ha! My eye's twitching because it's tired. It fucking says so here. So don't be waving your dumbass stick at me as if I give anything like half a shit about it. I am just staring too long at my computer screen. You deluded fucknut.
My twitchy eye must go away from the computer now. I see you are busy making friends with people who admire your stick. Of course! Of course!
My twitchy eye can't be bothered with your half-assed alchemy. It does not fucking believe you. You know why? You & your poking stick are not threatening, no matter how much you wave it about or how many stories you tell about it. My twitchy eye twitches with skepticism.
Frankly, my twitchy eye thinks you're a twit. Furthermore, my twitchy regards with some nausea the fact that you desperately need people to be afraid of your stick. Your stick is your diaper & your mama's teat. Grow the fuck up, mutters my twitchy eye under its breath. It can't stand the look of you.
Do you really think my eye is twitching because of you? Ha! Ha ha! My eye's twitching because it's tired. It fucking says so here. So don't be waving your dumbass stick at me as if I give anything like half a shit about it. I am just staring too long at my computer screen. You deluded fucknut.
My twitchy eye must go away from the computer now. I see you are busy making friends with people who admire your stick. Of course! Of course!