The Last Repetitive Stress Injury Ever

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

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

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

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

At The End Of May, A Mix Is Born

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

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

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

Have fun!

Whither Beauty Pageants?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hypnotic Weekend

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

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

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

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

Lonesomer Friday

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

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

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

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

Game Is The Name Of The Lame

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

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

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

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

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

Whither Hypnosis?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Non-Random Show Notification On Your Otherwise Spotless Corkboard

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

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

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

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

A Twist Of Lemon

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

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

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

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

That Boy Hermes

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

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

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

Thing.

Whither Lemons?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Preface To Lemons: I'd Rather Talk About Toast

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Dynamite To Los Angeles

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

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

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

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

One Dynamite Podcast!

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

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

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

Huzzah!

In Which Our Hero Makes One Final House Call

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

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

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

Whither Dynamite?

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

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

Still. Two things are interesting to me about dynamite.

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

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

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

Preface To Dynamite: A Stomach Flu For All Humankind!

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

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

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

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

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