Late On Friday

Obligatory post to remind you Self Help Radio is new tomorrow afternoon-ish. A short about diaries. You can use this link as a little key to unlock it at Self Help Radio Dot Net. Not yet! Tomorrow around the afternoon time when I am napping & you want to steal my secrets. Or see what I really think of you. Or what you really think of me. That's right! I read your diary & copied the nasty things you said about me word-for-word in my diary! How you like them apples, appleton?!?

Have a nice weekend. Get some sleep. Have a few drinks. Listen to the show!

Scheduled Outage

They're going to turn off this blog before anything can be written in it. Whatever shall I do? Must I be pithy? Must I be succinct? How can I be asked to do things I have obviously never done before?

I'm going to try to see Morgen Spurlock tonight. I'm not a horror movie fan, but I can safely say that, of all the scary damn movies ever made, his documentary/death-defying experiment Super Size Me frightened me the most. I am not certain exactly why - I am a hard-drinking vegetarian who's bound to die earlier than most - but since I saw the film, I have not eaten fast food.

I must qualify. Yes, there have been two or three exceptions, probably at airports, but also once when I had to rescue my crazy girlfriend from her own death-defying experiment, which was: falling asleep in a car going seventy miles an hour on highway 10 forty miles from Van Horn, Texas. There was nothing to eat in Van Horn except fast food, as I got there late & the supermarket was closed.

But I won't eat fast food if there are other options. & anyway, reading Fast Food Nation (& not seeing the shitty Dickie Linklater film) was more than enough for me to avoid the value menu cartel.

I say above that I am going to try to see Morgen Spurlock because of this asinine practice that places like the University have of giving out a lot of free tickets & then letting the people who come early & stand in line get in. I only hope Spurlock isn't as cool as the last person I waited hours for, which was Richard Dawkins (the picture on the wikipedia page is from the very appearance I saw!), so there won't be a large crowd. I also hope Spurlock doesn't do what Dawkins did, which was bring an amateurish powerpoint presentation with which to embarrass us all.

What? I can't shoot the shit any more? With my Self Help Radio peeps? Why? You've scheduled an outage? Bastards! I'll see you in

Whither Diaries?

I've never had a diary per se - you know, a little book with a lock that says "My Diary" on it. Not because I thought it was gay or anything - which it is. But because I never had one. No one bought me one. I wouldn't have had the money to buy myself one - not when there were still new comics coming out, anyway.

I remember in the summer of my seventh grade/eighth grade year, I became aware that I could forget my entire life. (That was before, of course, I had a lot of stuff to regret.) So I started making "tape recording" diaries at the ends of tapes of nonsense I recorded, whether it was episodes of television shows (we didn't have a VCR & yes, I would listen to them as though I were watching a repeat) or stupid attempts to be funny that eerily presaged my own dumb attempts at humor on my radio show. (My favorite fake person was a badly-British-accented fellow whose name was Gary Gutslucker. I don't remember if I thought the word was supposed to be dirty or not.)

I have some of those tapes around somewhere - I didn't make more than two weeks' worth, & my life was BORING so they're not special in any way. But they did set a tone: instead of diaries that talked about stuff, I recounted things I did. I had miscalculated the fact that ideas change as experiences change, & that I might not recognize the people I was talking about - not to mention the places I felt I would always remember.

I took this up again some time during college, again making the monstrous error of not elaborating on my ideas, my ambitions, my feelings. Looking over one of these this past summer when I was getting rid of shit because I thought I was moving to another part of the world - "diary entries" which were scrawled in the margins of old notebooks full of class notes - I found deeply important comments like: "Saw Rose today. She said I should seek professional help." I couldn't for the life of me remember who the hell Rose is. Or was. I didn't read much more.

When I first went online & met folks online - 1994, was it? - I wrote lots of emails. Lots of fucking emails. I gathered a day's worth a year or so later & realized, wow hey! They function like a diary! They were more emotional, more confessional, & because I was writing to another person, I had to explain things like my ideas, my thoughts, why I believed what I believed, etc.

Like with the tapes, though, the task of compiling them was just dumb. Also, a hard drive wipe would have erased everything - though so far that hasn't happened. Maybe that's a good thing.

Without explaining a tryst with Usenet & the inevitable trailing off of internet-only friends, I have had less & less "diary-like" opportunities over the past decade, & have never really tried to keep anything like a diary since then. I have been able to talk somewhat about my life on the radio - though that usually gets to be BORING too - & I can still use the email collection as a kind of vague outline of my life's experiences, but the last, worst hope is probably this blog, which I write it every day of the week, usually, & which usually contains nearly nothing about my life. You know, except for days like today.

Which is perfect.

Preface To My Diary: Home Sick Is Not Homesick

It is not. When one is homesick, one is not "home." One can perhaps be in a temporary "home," which is to say a place where one is residing, such as a cabin in the woods if one is a forest ranger, or a military base if one is a soldier, or on a relative's pull-out sofa if one is an American who has just lost one's house because of greedy American bankers wanting as much money as humanly possible & given permission by a corrupt American government, or a small "plate" at the bottom edge of a diamond if one is a baseball player scoring a run for the game, but none of those "homes" are the same as the place were one either resides in a more permanent sense or is the place one considers that one belongs. "Homesickness" is the longing one feels for one's place of belonging, often more imagined than real, & it can be potent.

Being home sick, as I am today, actually means being in that place of belonging, but not in good physical or mental shape - ailing in some way, or temporarily brought low by a germ or virus or bad luck.

The difference, like a lot of things, is a matter of context. But it can create misunderstanding if context is not properly emphasized, for example, to a call to work. "I am home sick today." "Where are you?" "At home." "Why are you homesick, then? You're at home." "That's what I meant. I'm home sick." "For what?" "I'm not home sick for anything, I'm home sick because of something." "What are you homesick because of?" "My guess is something spoiled or otherwise stomach-affecting in last night's meal." "God, who would be homesick for something like that?" "Me." "You're crazy! You should see a doctor!" "If it continues, I will." "I don't mean a doctor for being homesick!" "But if I am home sick too long, surely I should see a doctor?" "Not a medical doctor! A psychologist or something!" "How could a psychologist help me if I have a stomach ache?" "Well, he couldn't, but he could help you if you've spent too long homesick." "You make no sense."

Et cetera. Much unintended comedic conversation until the ghosts of Abbot & Costello appear & beat the living crap out of the idiotic pair.

This is a public service announcement from Self Help Radio & a nauseous fellow wishing he could sleep all day.

Bail Me Out!

Seriously. If there's that much money lying around, who would miss a few thousand dollars put into the account of a sweet fellow who does a silly radio show that - I think I read this somewhere - "hurts no one & no one hurts it"? Call it "the Iraq way," & pretend I am one of the Halliburtons.

No? Well, fine. But I shall continue to do all the things I normally do, but with less money than if I had the government money they are now spending to buy us all an insurance company. Can I at least have some insurance? Do the owners get a discount?

No? All right, then I'm going to go start working on this week's exciting episode of Self Help Radio, which will feature excerpts from my diary because the show is about diaries. How exciting! Nothing like last week's ridiculous show about heartbeats, which I did while holding my breath. A mistake!

You want to listen to it anyway? You're sweet. Visit Self Help Radio to do so, then. I will be happy & also slightly embarrassed. You know. Like I always am.

As Promised, Heartbeats & Funk

The weekend is here. My dog Ringo turns six, my mother turns 79. September turns its head & coughs. & two things are happening this weekend that concern you which you cannot & surely shall not miss.

First, this month's Self Help Radio Extra is a premium blend of what scientists call "funky soul." I found myself listening to some slightly obscure funk earlier this month & it led me to some other places, & this mix is a result of my exploration. Please enjoy. The playlist is on the page.

Second, this week's Self Help Radio will take the focus away from your broken mind to discussing & playing songs about heartbeats. I'll have the show ready for the doctor to see tomorrow afternoon exclusively at selfhelpradio.net. You know all about it.

Have a safe weekend. & remember, bringing Self Help Radio along might not make your weekend safer, but at least you'll know you were enjoying something before a random doom descends upon you. As it always seems to do on a Sunday afternoon. Why is that?

Funky In Here

This is what some people would call a "teaser."

The Oxford English Dictionary, that old bastard, defines a "teaser" thusly:

One who or that which teases, in various senses:
- One who teases wool, cotton, or the like; or, an instrument or machine for teasing wool, etc.
- One who teases or annoys.
- A woman who arouses but evades amorous advances; a ‘cock-teaser’. colloq.
- A strip-tease act; a strip-tease artist.
- Something that teases, or causes annoyance; something difficult to deal with, a ‘poser’.
- An introductory advertisement, esp. an excerpt or sample designed to stimulate interest or curiosity. orig. & chiefly U.S.

I mean the last definition. By the way, there are some weird-ass definitions for "teaser" (besides the one about wool - what the hell?) which I have neglected to include, a) because I don't want the OED suing me, & 2) because they're weird-ass. Like:

- An inferior stallion or ram used to excite mares or ewes.
- In elephant-hunting: "When we find them, the teasers, who are the most courageous of the hunters, begin to tease the leaders of the herd. The bulls soon become angry and excited and give chase to the teasers."
- In Cricket, a ball that is difficult to play. (possibly obsolete, since no one talks to anyone who play cricket, wisely)
- A fisherman's device (orig. live bait) for attracting fish.
- A kind of toy pipe with a coil (of paper, etc.) at the end which shoots out when one blows down the stem.

Really? That's what those toys are called?

Crap, I've quoted a lot of the definitions. The OED Legal Team is going to be teasing me in court for years to come.

Anyway, the point is: I am just saying that I am putting the last touches on this month's Self Help Radio Extra, which (it isn't ready yet, hence the tease) should be full of funky soul. I ran out of time today because I had to get a shot. Then I had to freak out because I got a shot. Then I had to get another shot to keep me from freaking out. Then another. Then another.

Those, of course, were shots of whiskey. Boom!

Tomorrow, then. Self Help Radio Extra. Be there or your freed ass won't be able to explain anything to your mind.

Whither Heartbeat?

A few weeks ago I saw something somewhere (funny how context eludes you, even when alluded to), possibly in a nature show or something like that, which suggested that we have a finite number of heartbeats. That, with corrections of course made for use & things like accidents (although wouldn't it be weird if you died early but you heart had to fulfill its contractual obligation to beat for the amount of time for which it was programmed?), our hearts will pump as long as they are supposed to pump. & the implication (or at least the meaning I took away from the television show/article/podcast/whatever) was that pretty much all mammals have the same number of heartbeats per life. Thus, little critters whose hearts beat way faster live shorter life spans, while behemoths live longer. That got me thinking about heartbeats.

Is it true? Here's an excerpt from a quick web search looking for that answer, in a silly article about human longevity:

Mice and elephants lead very different lifestyles — one ponderous, the other manic — yet rodents & pachyderms share the same pervasive pattern of aging. Individuals who survive the perils of daily life, from disease to predators, inevitably begin declining after finishing about half a billion heartbeats. Elephants live much longer than mice, but their hearts also beat far slower, so the total allotment stays remarkably similar. Few mammals live to celebrate their billionth pulse.

...[T]hat billion heartbeat limit that seems to confine all mammals, from shrews to giraffes [is] a pretty neat correlation, till you ponder the chief exception.

Us. Most mammals our size and weight are already fading by age twenty, when humans are just hitting their stride. By eighty, we've had about three billion heartbeats!

Of course we're the exception to the rule. We invented Accupril, Lopressor, Vasotec, Cardizem, Anacanapanasan, Vaxadrin & the rest. Duh!

Preface To Heartbeat: A Sadness, Not In Verse

Briefly, then, we overlook the mammalian heart, to seek some sort of solace instead where the heart may beat more fierce, in smaller so-called lesser orders, where something called love is never the order of the day - the week, the month, the year, should we live so long - where, indeed, clothed far more ostensibly fragile in crumples & mossy armor, a heart concerns itself mainly with the day-to-day & not with lofty chemical pursuits, where hearts attack due to dysfunction & not self-inflicted misfunction, & there we stay, letting the level, amoral lessons of nature steel us in a kind of organic & counterintuitive resolve, not remaining long, though we long to stay, to be settled in the soup, sludge & dew of wayward ago, for it may slow down the relentless beating, not of heart, which we shall learn to ignore, or learn to respect for its tireless work, but the beating instead of our tumble-down thoughts, our frightening, pulse-racing imaginings, which we know are not real, but which afflict us as we could create phantoms to haunt & hurt us, but not here - never here - we shall not stay long enough here - just a trifling in the exhausting span of our unappreciated lives, but hopefully, like the mud on the soles of our feet or the dampness gathering around us as we breathe & sleep, maybe enough time to stay & absorb & forget, not asking why the broken heart is brought back at all, but asking why it keeps beating regardless, & knowing our love songs & our love stories & our jealousies & whimperings & our orgasmic exaltations & our deep sweaty nerves affect it only incidentally - till we understand truly what the heart beats for, & take that knowledge into our better years.

There's Nothing Like A Salt Lick

It's true. Except another salt lick. This is mainly important for all my friends who happen to be birds in cages. Salt licks go a long way with them - even if there's no iodine & the birds get goiters.

Oh god is he still talking about salt? Wasn't he done with that dumbass salt show last week? I guess we should thank god he's not talking about Hurricane Ike.

Salt licks are however incredibly unimportant during this terrible hurricane season.

Oh christ!

I'm not just talking about hurricanes in the traditional "Ike" sense, but also in the non-traditional, non-western "typhoon" sense.

Great. Now he thinks there's something different about a typhoon. Next thing you know, he'll mention tidal waves & tsunamis.

For example, while your standard western hurricane creates tidal waves, typhoons produce what scientists call "tsunamis" (it rhymes with a video game manufacturer whose name escapes me).

Konami?

Hey, it just occurred to me that this is sort of like that "The Word" segment on The Colbert Report!

Oh god, you're right. Look, this whole blog thing - not to mention your own show - is derivative as all hell anyway - why not just plug last week's show & get the fug outta here.

You got it. Hey! Hurricane survivors & everyone else! Go listen to this week's Self Help Radio, which is about salt, yay! over at selfhelpradio.net! It's good for you in exactly the same way a hurricane is not!

Excellent. Wanna get a drink or something?

Yes!

Office Spacing

I moved offices today. That's an excuse. Hurricane Ike may be visiting Austin tomorrow so I need to go home & watch the news obsessively & with perverse glee to watch newscasters get blown around in high winds off Galveston. So I didn't have time today to write some nonsense here & I won't have time now. Instead I am wasting time making excuses.

But! Tomorrow! Self Help Radio is all about salt! & not at all about hurricanes! Although wouldn't it be weird if it were?

VIsit selfhelpradio.net around the time Houston is underwater & enjoy!

Needles To Say

Needles, I say! So sharp to the finger-prick, so hard for the threading! Did you know needles are mentioned over four thousand times in the Christian Bible? Let me rephrase that. Did you know I have written the word "needle" four thousand times all over the pages of my Christian Bible? It's true! Look it up!

But it does say that thing about shoving a camel through a needle's eye in like three of the four gospels. What up with that? Someone call the Roman SPCA! Jesus been shoving camels again! Is that why that Alaska woman hates moose so much? Are moose Alaska's camels?

"Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her," Shakespeare said, but too late! I had meddled with her. & she had thrown a drink in my face. But how it would have hurt if she had had a glass full of needles!

Needles also means hypodermic needles, attached to syringes, attached (ultimately) to Lou Reed. This can be of great disappointment to the uninitiated. I brought my needlepoint kit to a Needle Exchange Program expecting to trade some of my beloved Specialty Needles (I have one which is signed by all the cast members of Scooby Doo) (except Casey Kasem) (Casey Kasem is a douchebag) but instead I was told that I needed to be an IV Drug User or have a special Card which I could get at my local heroin dealer's. What a disappointment!

You are on pins & needles - & not on drugs - if you are nervous about something. Indeed, it seems to me two things are problematic here. One, who spilled all the needles & pins? Why didn't they clean them up? & two, why don't you watch where you're going? It's not like you can't see an entire floor covered in needles & pins! You probably want to live dangerously. I think you're an idiot.

Also, it's impossible, say, if you're needing to mend your threadbare coat, to use the needle on, say, your speedometer. Not to mention a VU meter! Those needles suck!

That's all the needle talk for today. I won't be "needling" you about "needles" further. Ha ha!

Whither Salt?

Salt! Salt! I just had salt on my lunch! What a coincidence!

Many people in the world today take salt for granted. There was a time when wars were fought for salt. People protested occupation by walking to get their own salt. Stores put salt in elegant containers rather than in disposable little square paper thingies. No more I say! We need to return to expensive salt! Valuable salt! Exotic salt! Priceless salt!

Okay, maybe not exotic salt. The people who extol the benefits of weird salt are kinda creepy, & probably also believe in the benefits of electrocuting their nipples when the moon is waning gibbous.

I shall construct a radio show to restore salt to its place of former glory & fame! Good old plain sodium chloride, ye shall be exalted!

At least this week. On Self Help Radio.

Preface To Salt: High Blood Pressure At Low Altitudes

"Blood pressure refers to the force exerted by circulating blood on the walls of blood vessels," says Wikipedia, & then presents to you some awesome terms which medical service folks get to use that no one else does. Note: this has very little to do with salt. I am just obsessing about blood pressure.

This has become more common in recent years, but I've always dug hypertension. It sounds like a super power, yeah? No! It's as bad a thing as real life gamma rays! Wikipedia, do me like your best girlfriend: "Hypertension, referred to as high blood pressure, HTN or HPN, is a medical condition in which the blood pressure is chronically elevated."

Even better, you could suffer from white coat hypertension. As opposed to black belt hypertension, jack boot hypertension, & the always nasty dirty undergarment hypertension, which is what I suffer from for reasons I can't be bothered to explain.

Hypotension is not nearly as interesting, mainly because hypertension sounds like your bodies about to explode & that's so totally Scanners.

Term number two: preeclampsia. Oh, it sounds like something rich white folks on the east coast spend a lot of money to get their kids into so they can go to the best schools, but my bitch Wikipedia knows the score: "Preeclampsia is a medical condition where hypertension arises in pregnancy (pregnancy-induced hypertension) in association with significant amounts of protein in the urine." Extra bonus points from mentioning urine!

Term number third: systole. Wikipedia! Testify: "Systole (rhymes with 'fiscally') is the contraction of heart chambers, driving blood out of the chambers." I know, it's only one of the measures of blood pressure, but doesn't "diastole" sound like the name of a Dutch prog-rock band? One is contraction, the other is expansion. Okay, maybe the prog-rock band would be called Systole-Diastole. But I think that diastole is boring. Systole rocks!

The coup de grace: sphygmomanometer. What the fuck?

Hey Wikipedia! Do it to me one more time: "A sphygmomanometer is a device used to measure blood pressure, comprising an inflatable cuff to restrict blood flow, & a mercury or mechanical manometer to measure the pressure." It comes from the Greek word for pulse, or the layperson's word for "fuckin' know-it-all just tell me which pills I gotta take."

By the way, waiting rooms are weird & it may be just me but there seem to be more women in them than men. Do men just not go to doctors? We don't, do we? We drop dead instead. Go us!

The Mad Rooster & The Dither Hen

That is the name of a short story that a genial fellow named Abraham Meddle was working on, his fourteenth &, he believed, most successful short story, the night he met a particularly embarrassing end while working (as he did his entire life) at the West Bubonic Paper Mill somewhere on or about a more or less empty township in the vicinity of West Texas.

The story was a simple one - a rooster who was not able to afford his meds (due to the Bush Administration's cruel restructuring of the Medicare/Medicaid needs policy) experienced a not unhappy resurgence of his schizophrenia & started to wreak havoc in the hen-house where he spent his idle time. The rooster, while not handsome, was the best the ladies in the house could hope for, but usually only when his demons were under control. When not, he tended to rip his (& others') feathers off their bodies, fly madly at the chicken wire, & issue denunciations of left-wing political candidates in a manner one matron described as "Ann Coulter-ish," which was not fit for polite company.

The dither hen was, as expected, a rather fussy & absent-minded old thing nearing the end of her laying cycle who managed to come up with a way to save the rooster without drugging him (using principles she gleaned from a cross between Christian Science & Scientology) & the body of the short story included inspirational & hilarious descriptions of the treatment & "cure" (Meddle was never interested in clear-cut endings) of the Mad Rooster, & possibly (it was unfinished) the eventual eating of the rooster & hen by a hungry family who were slowly starving thanks to the abandoning of the social safety net under the current administration in favor of "faith-based" initiatives, & the local churches frowning on the dither hen because Scientology is un-Christian & therefore leads its adherents to perdition.

Self Help Radio is glad to be able to summarize unfinished works as part of an ongoing series funded by the Confusion Group in association with Leanr To Rade, the adult literacy group run by dyslexics.

Self Help Radio dedicates its most recent show, Indiepop A To Z # 16, to these tireless advocates of whatever they care about. It's available, as are many other shows which these groups have nothing to do with either, at selfhelpradio.net. You may proceed there now single file.

Overtaxed Friday

Forgive me, loyal stalker, but I am, as the Bard says, "poopty-whoopty," on this, the end of the first week of September. I hope to get something I have heard about - it sounds exotic like a drug - you are able to see vivid hallucinations, all the while your bodies apparently replenishes itself - it's called "sleep" - at some point during the weekend. Because I cannot apparently get any during the week. I don't really know any reliable dealers.

But first & foremost, I will concentrate on this week's Self Help Radio. I believe you'll like it - I've decided to forego the airbreak/song style & present it as a continuous mix. That way I might be able to get to the Indiepop D's before John McCain steal the next election.

Have a lovely weekend & visit selfhelpradio.net tomorrow for yummy indiepop fun.

Like Teeth On Cheese Cloth

I am sleepy. I have been waking up on Thursday mornings to listen to a radio show called The War On Sailing, which is based on a blog I like called The War On Sailing, which is, I am embarrassed to say, where I get about 1/16th of the news I need to make it through the day. But the radio show is on from 5 to 7 am so boy are my arms tired.

He's not very good with his blog, though. So I am not rewarded for staying awake in this manner. But I am thinking of offering him space on the Self Help Radio web page & archiving some of his shows. The host, Vance Chamberlain, is notoriously untrustworthy & once shaved a man because he thought the man's moustache was a danger to himself & others. So whether I can convince him is entirely up to him. My powers of persuasion have been at low ebb. I am thinking of working for the other side, frankly.

There's no reason for you to lose hope, though! Or wait, were you? You had a face that either suggested you were losing hope or that you were chewing some fruity gum & then drank a diet soda & you realized that it was the exact flavor of a cherry Slurpee. Which one was it? You're going to be a pain in the ass until House returns for the fall.

Which reminds me, two more studios passed on the script I have been pretending to write for Self Help Radio: The Radio Show: The Movie. Surprisingly, even after a long liquid lunch, they want to see a script! I even mentioned ninjas, boobies, zombies & boobies! Ah well. Back to looking for a home on the radio. Tell me if you see any signs up. I'm going to call Vance Chamberlain & pretend to be Condoleeza Rice. It'll make him howl.

Whither Indiepop A To Z # 16?

Jus' continuin' the series, kind sir. Please leave me in peace whilst I listen to the jangly pop. Thank you.

Man! I'm hungry! It's a good thing I don't have pica. Not only that, it's a good thing that I, as an older male, don't even have the chance, short of a brain short circuit, of contracting pica. That's a relief. I might still get cancer, you know, or diabetes, or the good ol' epizootic. But no pica for me!

Still, I have to wait till I go home to eat, for three reasons:

1) As a vegetarian, my options in the world around me are limited. Not as limited as when I became a vegetarian in 1986, but still.
2) Since reading Fast Food Nation, a book I cannot recommend more highly, I don't eat fast food. That dwindles my already small pool of available eateries. & I don't really want to go to a restaurant alone. I would feel lonesome. The waiter would spill coffee on me.
3) If I eat without the love of my life, I am likely to get a beatdown. Seriously. She's always hitting me. I think she likes to hurt me. Ow! Oh shit! She's able to punch me psychically! Ow! She's mean! I hope I get a brain tumor & it causes me to get pica!

I know. I'll go find some gum. Meanwhile, I continue listening to the jangly pop. You're bound to be pleased.

Preface To Yet Another Indiepop A To Z: Blood Tests

Blood tests are obviously very helpful. According to a very helpful web site, "blood tests are used to determine physiological & biochemical states such as disease, mineral content, drug effectiveness, & organ function." So of course a very helpful thing to do. However, the same very helpful website states: "Although the term blood test is used, most routine tests (except for most haematology) are done on plasma or serum instead of blood cells."

Is that so! Why not "plasma tests"? As someone who's naturally scared of needles entering my veins & drawing out my precious, precious water of life, I would much prefer someone getting rid of smelly plasma than delicious blood. Plasma is the rind of blood. You can test as much as you want!

Blood tests, they are telling me now, involve taking the blood first, & then, through a process of deceit & guile, getting the plasma from the blood, & then feeding the blood to the stray dogs that congregate outside the clinic, unless someone at the clinic wants to take the blood home for their own pets. This seems far more reasonable & forward-thinking than the other, more wasteful clinics where the blood is taken for granted & left out on a dish by the kitchen window to cool & spoil.

My own interest in blood tests is none of your business (or even your interest), so I refuse to make a big to-do stinkeroo about them here in this general forum. However, I will have any & all phlebotomists out there to understand that my veins are my veins, & they will not be trifled with as if they were mountains with minerals in them for your personal enrichment. That's all I have to say on the subject except this:

"Ow! Watch where you put that needle!"

Laborious Day

Greeting on what I hope is a "day off." I like to consider it "possible nap time." Although I probably won't get to nap.

What I do get to do is remind you that Self Help Radio was only a little sleepy when I interviewed the great Mr Impossible (tm) for the Impossible show, which was made available to your grubby little computer hands on Saturday over at selfhelpradio.net. Please enjoy. The reviews are pouring in here at SHR central, although they're reviews of "Hamlet 2" & not the Impossible Show. Therefore it would make no sense to share them with you.

If you had to labor on Labor Day, those of us who are just taking laborious breaths thank you. You made it possible for us to enjoy yet another hot, sticky, unpleasant late summer day, while another hot, wet, unpleasant hurricane threatened the lives of our neighbors in the gulf region. Hooray for you! Hooray for holidays!