I'll be (mostly) away from a computer all day tomorrow, so I figured I'd write in this here blog here here here so I don't miss a day. I feel awful about missing a week. I don't think I have slept a wink since last night. & is it really sleep when large quantities of alcohol make you lose consciousness? I think Socrates said it best when he said, "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
Two weeks later, the scorn you chose to shield me with still raises hackles. Did you put your answering machine on repeat just for me? Or was it your voice mail? Excuse me if I am not as rabid with the latest tautologies as you are. At least I can watch a Don Cheadle movie without feeling dirty. Can you say the same? Can the ghost of James Stewart say the same? Can Jimmy Stewart's ghost say anything? Would it be a cute semi-stammering drawl with a reverb effect? Oh the things you let on!
I just want you to be peripherally aware that tomorrow, my first Self Help Radio of 2009 will appear, & I hope you'll sit with your family around a roaring campfire & sing all the nice songs that the nice folks (not those assholes in Nice) have such the nice reaction to. & it'll be like I am there with you, a cigar in my pocket & some loose change down the front of my blouse, secretly wishing I could hold your hand like in the old days & stare up into the planets, & then burning myself on the fire because I fell asleep again, so comforted am I by your clammy paws.
& why aren't you my friend on Facebook anyway? You never loved me.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Giraffe Ate My Homebook
Happy New Year! Now I gotta re-do my stupid Self Help Radio web page. Thanks Father Time!
Powerful forces who monitor my ever other move would have sent this note if I had deigned to read it: "Mr Help Radio, we who control you every other thought & the bowel atrocities besides not only hoard water & make passionate love to giant squid, but we also carry an advent calendar which tells us thus: where is the December Self Help Radio Extra? Not that we would download & read such orifice pornography, but we believe in the sanctity of the space-time continuum & also in the ever-expanding puffiness of the Shatner Neck. Please correct this by New Year's Diary or we'll have to borrow your tambourines & not return them on time. Love, the Overlords."
Alas! My recent adventure in Africa haven't nor willn't make it possible to explain not only the horrors of elderly baptism, but also (if not including) how an unexpected victory at a North Dakota arm-wrestling competition (mavel tov!) made it virtually implacable that I continue to fulfill the December obligations to which I have been acclimatized. My deepest apologies. January is as always on a totally different platter. Stay lubed!
Will you ever love me again? If not then, when?
Powerful forces who monitor my ever other move would have sent this note if I had deigned to read it: "Mr Help Radio, we who control you every other thought & the bowel atrocities besides not only hoard water & make passionate love to giant squid, but we also carry an advent calendar which tells us thus: where is the December Self Help Radio Extra? Not that we would download & read such orifice pornography, but we believe in the sanctity of the space-time continuum & also in the ever-expanding puffiness of the Shatner Neck. Please correct this by New Year's Diary or we'll have to borrow your tambourines & not return them on time. Love, the Overlords."
Alas! My recent adventure in Africa haven't nor willn't make it possible to explain not only the horrors of elderly baptism, but also (if not including) how an unexpected victory at a North Dakota arm-wrestling competition (mavel tov!) made it virtually implacable that I continue to fulfill the December obligations to which I have been acclimatized. My deepest apologies. January is as always on a totally different platter. Stay lubed!
Will you ever love me again? If not then, when?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Whither Indiepop A To Z # 18?
2008 was a persistent cough with an intermittent sore throat. 2008 was to laugh. 2008 daren't, & most certainly 2008 mayn't, especially after we all agreed, don't let's 2008! A pox on all 2008 houses, & then a lot of us didn't own them anymore.
2008 sat in a pool of its own waste, yelling wildly at all the other years, but somehow sounding both more petulant and mewlish. 2008 was too cute by half. 2008 could never decide what to wear, so looked both foppish & unkempt. 2008 could barely pay attention, & paid nearly no mind.
2008 held its breath & still never got what it wanted. 2008 pratfell but wasn't funny anymore. 2008 was the year that cried "Wolf!" to a tired world. Every old idea 2008 recycled would have been cheaper to manufacture new.
2008 had wagged & snarled like a dog. 2008 fantasized more & more & dreamed less & less. 2008 took pills for all sorts of things: to focus on its standardized tests, to be better at sports, to keep the blood clots from forming in its legs, to see colors in the night sky.
2008 was not sure what it wanted to be when it grew up. 2008 lied to everyone about its sexual prowess. 2008 needed a shower & a shave &, toward the end, everyone agreed, was letting itself go. The impression 2008 left was slight, like finding a cut on your body & not remembering when you got it. Still, 2008 lost a lot of blood.
2008 gained weight but wasted time. 2008 wrote lots of bad poetry because hardly anyone wrote poetry to 2008. What a hypocrite 2008 was! What a sad sack of shit 2008 was! What a bleary-eyed malcontent 2008 was!
We all had mostly decent times with 2008, but the bad times were really, really bad. Now none of us can really come to grips with 2008. 2008 stole more than a year from all of us. We can help feeling, right before 2008 disappears, that somehow 2008 owes us big time. & yet. We know we'll never collect.
2008 sat in a pool of its own waste, yelling wildly at all the other years, but somehow sounding both more petulant and mewlish. 2008 was too cute by half. 2008 could never decide what to wear, so looked both foppish & unkempt. 2008 could barely pay attention, & paid nearly no mind.
2008 held its breath & still never got what it wanted. 2008 pratfell but wasn't funny anymore. 2008 was the year that cried "Wolf!" to a tired world. Every old idea 2008 recycled would have been cheaper to manufacture new.
2008 had wagged & snarled like a dog. 2008 fantasized more & more & dreamed less & less. 2008 took pills for all sorts of things: to focus on its standardized tests, to be better at sports, to keep the blood clots from forming in its legs, to see colors in the night sky.
2008 was not sure what it wanted to be when it grew up. 2008 lied to everyone about its sexual prowess. 2008 needed a shower & a shave &, toward the end, everyone agreed, was letting itself go. The impression 2008 left was slight, like finding a cut on your body & not remembering when you got it. Still, 2008 lost a lot of blood.
2008 gained weight but wasted time. 2008 wrote lots of bad poetry because hardly anyone wrote poetry to 2008. What a hypocrite 2008 was! What a sad sack of shit 2008 was! What a bleary-eyed malcontent 2008 was!
We all had mostly decent times with 2008, but the bad times were really, really bad. Now none of us can really come to grips with 2008. 2008 stole more than a year from all of us. We can help feeling, right before 2008 disappears, that somehow 2008 owes us big time. & yet. We know we'll never collect.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Preface To Indiepop A To Z # 18: My Thoughtless Dismissal Of Christian Heavy Metal Causes A Shitstorm
A new year. A cloud of poisonous smoke. A level five ogre with a plate of recently spoiled luncheon meat. A book of non-sequiturs. Three Irish setters named "O'Seamus." Everyone who will ever love you. Some who will not.
A rented coat rack in a drifter's squat in Bakersfield in 2008. The next-to-the-last day of the year. You're there. I'm there. Not surprisingly, Montana governor Brian Schweitzer is there. The following are the words recorded in the angels' notebooks:
You: Sexy.
Me: Remunerative.
You: Cavalier.
Me: Sandwich-board wisdom.
You: Fifteen points!
Me: Hollywood swinging.
Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer: The Governor will carry out the executive power vested by the Montana Constitution and faithfully execute the laws of the state. In so doing, the Governor's Office will ensure that the state government continues to live within its means; that is, with existing taxes collected equitably and no additional tax burden on its citizens. The Governor's Office will ensure that the programs and budgets of state departments are sustainable and operated efficiently and fairly. The Governor's Office will protect the social capital of Montana, its families, businesses and communities by the judicious use of state resources and effective delivery of state services.
You: What he said.
Me: What he did.
A breeze ruffles a sports jacket which, if it lives long enough, will become fashionable for the last time in 2015. There is something like fear in the air. It's the scent of fast food french fries scalded with lard. The governor trembles.
You: I wish there were still three pickles left.
Me: Devil-may-care.
You: Must I wait for love?
Me: Ne'er-do-well.
You: This painful burden I carry.
Me: Brother-in-law.
Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer: Terre de nos aïeux. Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux. Car ton bras sait porter l'épée, il sait porter la croix. Ton histoire est une épopée, des plus brillants exploits. Et ta valeur, de foi trempée, protégera nos foyers et nos droits. Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.
You: I'm glad to hear it.
Me: Take it back.
Soon, night has fallen & it can't get up. The stars over the ocean step lightly, lest they be caught in a cross-current of mud, blood, beer & obscure human-tested pharmaceuticals. In the distance, a door slams.
You: Boys to men.
Me: All for one.
You: I'll be sure.
Me: Wrecks in effect.
You: Hair metal?
Me: No, no. Glam.
Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer: What's a governor got to do to get some decent alcohol in this fucking town?
You: Roger Clemens?
Me: Clarence Clemons?
You: Clemons, Iowa?
Me: Samuel Langhorne Clemens.
A new year. Or maybe. No. No. It'll be a new year. Watch your step.
A rented coat rack in a drifter's squat in Bakersfield in 2008. The next-to-the-last day of the year. You're there. I'm there. Not surprisingly, Montana governor Brian Schweitzer is there. The following are the words recorded in the angels' notebooks:
You: Sexy.
Me: Remunerative.
You: Cavalier.
Me: Sandwich-board wisdom.
You: Fifteen points!
Me: Hollywood swinging.
Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer: The Governor will carry out the executive power vested by the Montana Constitution and faithfully execute the laws of the state. In so doing, the Governor's Office will ensure that the state government continues to live within its means; that is, with existing taxes collected equitably and no additional tax burden on its citizens. The Governor's Office will ensure that the programs and budgets of state departments are sustainable and operated efficiently and fairly. The Governor's Office will protect the social capital of Montana, its families, businesses and communities by the judicious use of state resources and effective delivery of state services.
You: What he said.
Me: What he did.
A breeze ruffles a sports jacket which, if it lives long enough, will become fashionable for the last time in 2015. There is something like fear in the air. It's the scent of fast food french fries scalded with lard. The governor trembles.
You: I wish there were still three pickles left.
Me: Devil-may-care.
You: Must I wait for love?
Me: Ne'er-do-well.
You: This painful burden I carry.
Me: Brother-in-law.
Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer: Terre de nos aïeux. Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux. Car ton bras sait porter l'épée, il sait porter la croix. Ton histoire est une épopée, des plus brillants exploits. Et ta valeur, de foi trempée, protégera nos foyers et nos droits. Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.
You: I'm glad to hear it.
Me: Take it back.
Soon, night has fallen & it can't get up. The stars over the ocean step lightly, lest they be caught in a cross-current of mud, blood, beer & obscure human-tested pharmaceuticals. In the distance, a door slams.
You: Boys to men.
Me: All for one.
You: I'll be sure.
Me: Wrecks in effect.
You: Hair metal?
Me: No, no. Glam.
Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer: What's a governor got to do to get some decent alcohol in this fucking town?
You: Roger Clemens?
Me: Clarence Clemons?
You: Clemons, Iowa?
Me: Samuel Langhorne Clemens.
A new year. Or maybe. No. No. It'll be a new year. Watch your step.
Monday, December 29, 2008
How Self Help Radio Changed 2008
Self Help Radio didn't help get Barack Obama elected President of the United States. Self Help Radio did not help India get to the moon. Self Help Radio was not involved in the death of [insert someone you like who died in 2008], although Self Help Radio did write an awful lot of poetry about that person three weeks before the death. Self Help Radio might have said something to offend the economy, but who will blame us for that?
Self Help Radio changed 2008 but being such a powerfully insignificant force for change. Self Help Radio may have been like the beating of a moth's wings that, thousands of miles away & decades later, causes a New Yorker to sneeze & infect a subway car with Mad Cow Disease. Science will find & dismiss a causal link soon enough, but for now, let the conjecture stand: even though you have no idea it exists, & probably never will, Self Help Radio is a miniscule force for change in your life.
(The actual ranking may be in the low high twenty thousands. But the actuaries are hogging the stats. They're still trying to prove that Self Help Radio kills the unborn at a higher rate than other radio shows.)
What does this have to do with pornography, you may ask? The number of Self Help Radio-themed pornographic series remained constant in 2008 (there were none), but where there's room for improvement, there's also room to dance. & Self Help Radio danced more than the average radio show in 2008. Radio shows are notorious wallflowers, so this may not seem to be important, but that's what they said about the Piltdown Man & look what kinds of hijinks ensued during that dance contest.
It's not too late to enjoy the last Self Help Radio of 2008 to glean for yourself what Self Help Radio knows to be true. Visit selfhelpradio.net & make yourself believe what you ought to know you believe. Which is, Self Help Radio is. & most possibly shall be.
Self Help Radio changed 2008 but being such a powerfully insignificant force for change. Self Help Radio may have been like the beating of a moth's wings that, thousands of miles away & decades later, causes a New Yorker to sneeze & infect a subway car with Mad Cow Disease. Science will find & dismiss a causal link soon enough, but for now, let the conjecture stand: even though you have no idea it exists, & probably never will, Self Help Radio is a miniscule force for change in your life.
(The actual ranking may be in the low high twenty thousands. But the actuaries are hogging the stats. They're still trying to prove that Self Help Radio kills the unborn at a higher rate than other radio shows.)
What does this have to do with pornography, you may ask? The number of Self Help Radio-themed pornographic series remained constant in 2008 (there were none), but where there's room for improvement, there's also room to dance. & Self Help Radio danced more than the average radio show in 2008. Radio shows are notorious wallflowers, so this may not seem to be important, but that's what they said about the Piltdown Man & look what kinds of hijinks ensued during that dance contest.
It's not too late to enjoy the last Self Help Radio of 2008 to glean for yourself what Self Help Radio knows to be true. Visit selfhelpradio.net & make yourself believe what you ought to know you believe. Which is, Self Help Radio is. & most possibly shall be.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Oh, Bollocks!
I'm sorry, friends. It's been a busy week. So can I take the week off from writing in the blog? Thanks!
This week's show is my favorite music (minus the electronica) from 2008.
If you're in Austin (or not), you can listen to my buddy Dick Dickenbock play lots of bluesy Christmas music on Blues At Sunrise this morning on KVRX from 7 to 9am (Texas time) & then, later, all kinds of Christmas music from 7pm till 1am (I think). That's on the 91.7 frequency. & live at kvrx.org. Maybe he'll let me archive it. But probably not.
See you Monday!
This week's show is my favorite music (minus the electronica) from 2008.
If you're in Austin (or not), you can listen to my buddy Dick Dickenbock play lots of bluesy Christmas music on Blues At Sunrise this morning on KVRX from 7 to 9am (Texas time) & then, later, all kinds of Christmas music from 7pm till 1am (I think). That's on the 91.7 frequency. & live at kvrx.org. Maybe he'll let me archive it. But probably not.
See you Monday!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
A Very Self Help Radio Christmas 2008!
Before I sign off this blog until next Monday (I gotta get married this weekend, don'tcha know), I have prepared, a week early, this year's a Very Self Help Radio Christmas. It's live for your listening & Santa-sucking-up pleasure at selfhelpradio.net. You're welcome. Now stuff my stocking!
& last year's Christmas show is still available for listening to if you are so inclined. & why not? Aren't you just a little gay for Christmas carols? I thought so.
See you in a few days! Have a happy pre-holiday weekend!
& last year's Christmas show is still available for listening to if you are so inclined. & why not? Aren't you just a little gay for Christmas carols? I thought so.
See you in a few days! Have a happy pre-holiday weekend!
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Whither A Self Help Radio Christmas 2008?
Ho ho ho! I've said on this blog & in the privacy of my own head that I don't really have any supernatural beliefs, so why in the world would a weirdo like me enjoy Christmas? The truth is, I don't. I don't give gifts, I don't get gifts, I don't enjoy anything consumerish or consumery or consumer-oriented. But. It's sad to admit this.
I love Christmas music.
Not just the funny or ridiculous stuff - & of course I like the ridiculous stuff - but even the schmaltzy stuff. Of course you have heard all the really, really overplayed stuff. But I don't play that on Self Help Radio anyway. I just play the stuff I've been digging around for for the past year. & surprise, surprise! There's a lot of great stuff!
Not only that - but you'll get it early. I'm not going to be around this weekend for Self Help Radio, so my Christmas gift to you comes a week early - tomorrow!
& I don't like giving gifts. Well, except to you.
I love Christmas music.
Not just the funny or ridiculous stuff - & of course I like the ridiculous stuff - but even the schmaltzy stuff. Of course you have heard all the really, really overplayed stuff. But I don't play that on Self Help Radio anyway. I just play the stuff I've been digging around for for the past year. & surprise, surprise! There's a lot of great stuff!
Not only that - but you'll get it early. I'm not going to be around this weekend for Self Help Radio, so my Christmas gift to you comes a week early - tomorrow!
& I don't like giving gifts. Well, except to you.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Preface To Christmas 2008: Santa Pictures!
Hooray! It's drunk Santa!
Or is this drunk Santa?
Hey! Why is Santa so scary? I mean, he's really, really freaking me out. I wonder, has anyone ever done scientific research about this?
Whatever. The dude has sure been around a long time. But maybe it was Thomas Nast who invented him, so there's really nothing to be scared of. Unless. Oh god. Was it Coca Cola?
No? Whew. Boy, Christmas is weird.
Or is this drunk Santa?
Hey! Why is Santa so scary? I mean, he's really, really freaking me out. I wonder, has anyone ever done scientific research about this?
Whatever. The dude has sure been around a long time. But maybe it was Thomas Nast who invented him, so there's really nothing to be scared of. Unless. Oh god. Was it Coca Cola?
No? Whew. Boy, Christmas is weird.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Blood Pudding
How to Christmas polka, part one: Find someone to Christmas polka with. It's not entirely clear if one must wear Christmas polka dots, nor what exactly those entail. Dots of some sort. Maybe green & red. Next hire the best-rated Christmas polka band in the county. Perhaps there is a polka magazine which rates polka bands in your area. If not, fair enough. Perhaps there's some sort of telephone directory. Look under "polka bands." Lots to choose from? No? How about "bowling alleys"? All right, polka band. Polka partner. Next plan a Christmas party. Booze is essential. Friends are not. Booze makes a lot of good friends. In general. For short periods of time, but you only need a couple of hours. Polka bands can run you into some money. Christmas polka bands will gouge you. Believe you me. Booze, band, partner. Need polka lessons? Easy. "Polka For Dummies." Huzzah!
Tomorrow: How to Christmas polka, part two: emergency room etiquette.
Today: want to hear what I think is the neatest electronica to come out in the past year? Easily done! Visit selfhelpradio.net right now! Download! Listen! Electronic polka? Maybe not.
Tomorrow: How to Christmas polka, part two: emergency room etiquette.
Today: want to hear what I think is the neatest electronica to come out in the past year? Easily done! Visit selfhelpradio.net right now! Download! Listen! Electronic polka? Maybe not.
Friday, December 12, 2008
One Final Thought About A Weekend Full Of Cold Medicine
Too much isn't a good thing.
Or: maybe I should've had that flu shot.
Remember! Tomorrow Self Help Radio presents my favorite electronic songs of the year! Happening in the afternoon at selfhelpradio.net. Listen if only to hear how fucked up my voice sounds!
Or: maybe I should've had that flu shot.
Remember! Tomorrow Self Help Radio presents my favorite electronic songs of the year! Happening in the afternoon at selfhelpradio.net. Listen if only to hear how fucked up my voice sounds!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Self Help Radio Email Archive Project: Submission Seven
Written for a young lady (not named Jane Jameson) in the spring of 1996. There's a sad story here, but I won't put it in here. Needless to say, I invented the "brain gophers" for her & this is the first time I've shared them with anyone but her. I hope she forgives me!
-----
Denver, 1999. In the fairly civil Civil Engineering Lab of the famous Jane "Overpass" Jameson, sewage system designer to the stars, the Civil Engineer confronts Specula, leader of the Brain Gophers.
"What do you want?" says she. "Batteries not included."
"A cup of tea would be nice," Specula responds. Not even a little chagrined.
Pouring tea, Jane realizes that all these years just the hint of flowing liquid would make her have to go the bathroom. Even reading such a sentence, or a wonderful poem mentioning the lovely cascade of an elegant river, would trigger her urination fixation. She thinks she might need some sort of bladder control device, & thinks about designing one.
"Brain Gophers, despite what our name implies (& we didn't name ourselves, Ms. Jameson, our parents did)," says Specula, "don't need brains. We don't have brains. We certainly don't want human brains. We like to dig in them, it's true, but we'd rather have cake. Lots of it. With sticky candies on top. And a thin layer of candle wax & grime. And perhaps a little song."
Jane's ears perk up. "A bunny hop song?" says she.
"Of course not," Specula fumes. "A Brain Gopher song."
Jane consults her World Almanac. Nothing there about Brain Gophers. She watches a little TV. Still not a thing about Brain Gophers, not even on the Discovery Channel. She reads the complete work of Henry James, who, she realizes too late, actually just seemed to have a gopher up his ass, not in his brain. She comes back to find the Brain Gopher beating himself in a double-blind game of of Stratego.
"I have no song," she says, realizing the world is doomed & she made need to start packing, "but I have a rhyming couplet."
"Hit me," says Specula.
"Okay," says Jane. She clear her throat, which hasn't felt well since March of 1996, and intones:
"No one ever can begin to explain
Those pesky gophers of the brain
But we can use lemon juice on that stain."
"That's not a rhyming couplet!" the Brain Gopher snarls. "That's a rhyming triplet!"
"Would you like an overpass with that?" asks Jane.
-----
Denver, 1999. In the fairly civil Civil Engineering Lab of the famous Jane "Overpass" Jameson, sewage system designer to the stars, the Civil Engineer confronts Specula, leader of the Brain Gophers.
"What do you want?" says she. "Batteries not included."
"A cup of tea would be nice," Specula responds. Not even a little chagrined.
Pouring tea, Jane realizes that all these years just the hint of flowing liquid would make her have to go the bathroom. Even reading such a sentence, or a wonderful poem mentioning the lovely cascade of an elegant river, would trigger her urination fixation. She thinks she might need some sort of bladder control device, & thinks about designing one.
"Brain Gophers, despite what our name implies (& we didn't name ourselves, Ms. Jameson, our parents did)," says Specula, "don't need brains. We don't have brains. We certainly don't want human brains. We like to dig in them, it's true, but we'd rather have cake. Lots of it. With sticky candies on top. And a thin layer of candle wax & grime. And perhaps a little song."
Jane's ears perk up. "A bunny hop song?" says she.
"Of course not," Specula fumes. "A Brain Gopher song."
Jane consults her World Almanac. Nothing there about Brain Gophers. She watches a little TV. Still not a thing about Brain Gophers, not even on the Discovery Channel. She reads the complete work of Henry James, who, she realizes too late, actually just seemed to have a gopher up his ass, not in his brain. She comes back to find the Brain Gopher beating himself in a double-blind game of of Stratego.
"I have no song," she says, realizing the world is doomed & she made need to start packing, "but I have a rhyming couplet."
"Hit me," says Specula.
"Okay," says Jane. She clear her throat, which hasn't felt well since March of 1996, and intones:
"No one ever can begin to explain
Those pesky gophers of the brain
But we can use lemon juice on that stain."
"That's not a rhyming couplet!" the Brain Gopher snarls. "That's a rhyming triplet!"
"Would you like an overpass with that?" asks Jane.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Whither Gary's Favorite Electronica 2008?
Ah. cold medicine. How kind you are to those of us whose noses are rubbed red from incessant blowing! You have let me see, through the cotton & fuzz in my head, such winsome colors & marmalade skies. That is why I am proud that this week's Self Help Radio will be a tender & thorough explication, exploration & explanation of my friend the cold/sinus medication.
[Uh, Gary? No, no, it won't. - Ed.]
Who said that? Holy fuck me! Is the cold medicine talking to me again?
[No, Gary, it's me. Your editor. - Ed.]
Ed.? Ed.? Who's Ed.?
[Remember, fifteen years ago, when they pulled you out of a Bombay slum where your vacationing parents had left you with only a sign that read "Help Me - Victim Of Chernobyl"? I was part of the team who put your back together. We wanted to make you bigger, stronger, faster. We had the technology. Instead, we found you liked to do radio. I was asked to keep an eye on you & make sure you could string proper English words together in a sentence. - Ed.]
I don't remember any of that. Is it true?
[What's true is true if you think it's true, Gary. - Ed.]
I think I should up the dosage of my cold medicine!
[& I think you should make sure that this week's Self Help Radio is your pick of your favorite Electronica of 2008. - Ed.]
Favorite electric cold medication!
[We would have made so much more money off you if you had just let us replace your brain with a barrel of monkey. - Ed.]
Monkeys on cold medication!
[Uh, Gary? No, no, it won't. - Ed.]
Who said that? Holy fuck me! Is the cold medicine talking to me again?
[No, Gary, it's me. Your editor. - Ed.]
Ed.? Ed.? Who's Ed.?
[Remember, fifteen years ago, when they pulled you out of a Bombay slum where your vacationing parents had left you with only a sign that read "Help Me - Victim Of Chernobyl"? I was part of the team who put your back together. We wanted to make you bigger, stronger, faster. We had the technology. Instead, we found you liked to do radio. I was asked to keep an eye on you & make sure you could string proper English words together in a sentence. - Ed.]
I don't remember any of that. Is it true?
[What's true is true if you think it's true, Gary. - Ed.]
I think I should up the dosage of my cold medicine!
[& I think you should make sure that this week's Self Help Radio is your pick of your favorite Electronica of 2008. - Ed.]
Favorite electric cold medication!
[We would have made so much more money off you if you had just let us replace your brain with a barrel of monkey. - Ed.]
Monkeys on cold medication!
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Preface To Gary's Favorite Electronica 2008: What's So Bad About Robots?
Warning: I am still cold-sick & am full of difficult medications. So before I tell you why robots will eventually enslave us & make us into no better than toasters for their sick fantasies, let me assure you that I am as lucid as the old mill stream. Or if I could put it in limerick form:
There once was an inveterate drummer,
Whose lack of teeth made him a gummer,
Hoof & mouth disease
Had killed all his fleas
But they couldn't kill his neighborhood plumber.
I drifted off there for a second. What was I saying? Something about the nascent probability of orbital decay? That old party fluke? I never! Still, when it's balmy out, the medication makes me feel the strangest pure joy. I should like to blow my nose exclusively in the shower. We wait, don't we, for the many ways to bend & unbend.
Still not convinced? Exhibit R: robots! They may seem lovable now, but doesn't a knife seem nice until it's cutting your jugular? Could I say the same about scissors? & David Duchovny?
I trust you'll vouchsafe my godspeed as I away? Very well. Damn, this is good cold medicine.
There once was an inveterate drummer,
Whose lack of teeth made him a gummer,
Hoof & mouth disease
Had killed all his fleas
But they couldn't kill his neighborhood plumber.
I drifted off there for a second. What was I saying? Something about the nascent probability of orbital decay? That old party fluke? I never! Still, when it's balmy out, the medication makes me feel the strangest pure joy. I should like to blow my nose exclusively in the shower. We wait, don't we, for the many ways to bend & unbend.
Still not convinced? Exhibit R: robots! They may seem lovable now, but doesn't a knife seem nice until it's cutting your jugular? Could I say the same about scissors? & David Duchovny?
I trust you'll vouchsafe my godspeed as I away? Very well. Damn, this is good cold medicine.
Monday, December 08, 2008
I'm So Cold For You
It's true. Despite another wonderful Self Help Radio in the can - last week's Birthday Show is being celebrated by virtually everyone who ever had a birthday - which may explain why all the robots hate it - damn you robots! - as I was saying, despite being flush with triumph at making another show which is better than most of the other shows being made by anyone within a three hundred foot radius of me (you know, because I have a restraining order against all other deejays - which of course makes segues at the radio station very difficult), I caught a cold this weekend. It sucks.
It may not be simply a cold. It may be what savvy medicos are calling "a sinus infection." Wait? What's that? If it's a sinus infection I may need antibiotics. Antibiotics are heavily promoted by the wealthy & powerful Evolving Germs lobby. I hear that politicians pay to not go to their fundraisers. Anyway, I don't want to see a doctor, so I have been chewing on some kind of cold/flu/sinus medication & it's the daytime formula so I can't even sleep.
You know why my friends are telling me to do? They want me to snort salt water. I'm not kidding. They say it's an old-fashioned way of curing a cold. I imagine it's a new-fangled way to destroy the mucous lining in your sinus cavity. But what do I know? My head feelings like it's filled with cotton. But salt isn't a powder I will snort, sorry.
Wait! Stop reading this blog! I'm still infectious! Sorry! So sorry about that!
It may not be simply a cold. It may be what savvy medicos are calling "a sinus infection." Wait? What's that? If it's a sinus infection I may need antibiotics. Antibiotics are heavily promoted by the wealthy & powerful Evolving Germs lobby. I hear that politicians pay to not go to their fundraisers. Anyway, I don't want to see a doctor, so I have been chewing on some kind of cold/flu/sinus medication & it's the daytime formula so I can't even sleep.
You know why my friends are telling me to do? They want me to snort salt water. I'm not kidding. They say it's an old-fashioned way of curing a cold. I imagine it's a new-fangled way to destroy the mucous lining in your sinus cavity. But what do I know? My head feelings like it's filled with cotton. But salt isn't a powder I will snort, sorry.
Wait! Stop reading this blog! I'm still infectious! Sorry! So sorry about that!
Friday, December 05, 2008
Happy Birthday To You!
Are you Bhumibol Adulyadej, Sheldon Lee Glashow, Little Richard, Joan Didion, Calvin Trillin, J. J. Cale, Peter Pohl, José Carreras, Morgan Brittany, Krystian Zimerman, Doctor Dre, Wayne Smith, Shalom Harlow, Amy Acker, Nick Stahl, Shizuka Ito, or Chris Solinsky? Are you at all like them? Because they have one thing in common, & it's not that they've all seen the business end of Dick Cheney's Saturday Nite Special. No, today is their birthday!
& do you know what? Everyone, even insomniacs & reincarnated douchebags, has a birthday! Especially but not including my lovely Magdalena, the only woman in the universe who has not gotten so tired of my shit that she's kicked my teeth in! Since she has a birthday (it was this past Monday, by the way), & since she's so important to me, it follows that all birthdays must be important to me. Go ahead, give me a logic puzzle, I'll solve it.
So tomorrow's Self Help Radio will be all about birthdays - not just Magda's, but yours, too. Listen to it now or save it for your birthday week. What do I care? I mean, I do care!
Something smells like a microwaved baked potato. (Which is, of course, weird. Why bake a potato only to microwave it?) I'm getting the hell out of here.
Listen to Self Help Radio tomorrow in the afternoon exclusively at selfhelpradio.net. It'll sound as good as a birthday cake tastes. You have my recorded word on that.
& do you know what? Everyone, even insomniacs & reincarnated douchebags, has a birthday! Especially but not including my lovely Magdalena, the only woman in the universe who has not gotten so tired of my shit that she's kicked my teeth in! Since she has a birthday (it was this past Monday, by the way), & since she's so important to me, it follows that all birthdays must be important to me. Go ahead, give me a logic puzzle, I'll solve it.
So tomorrow's Self Help Radio will be all about birthdays - not just Magda's, but yours, too. Listen to it now or save it for your birthday week. What do I care? I mean, I do care!
Something smells like a microwaved baked potato. (Which is, of course, weird. Why bake a potato only to microwave it?) I'm getting the hell out of here.
Listen to Self Help Radio tomorrow in the afternoon exclusively at selfhelpradio.net. It'll sound as good as a birthday cake tastes. You have my recorded word on that.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
The Self Help Radio Email Archive Project: Submission Six
Today's remembrance is from a silly email I wrote to a silly woman with whom I might have once had the chance to have a silly relationship but it fell through due to silliness. I am just posting excerpts of silliness.
The email was called "The Mlik Chocolate Melts In Your Hair, Not In Your Hamster"
She told me she was sad, & I wrote this:
You obviously haven't heard The Antacid Song!
Antacid, antacid
You don't understand my tummy
Antacid, antacid
You think I am a dummy
Just because I eat high heels
& travel with the acrobats
& skip all buffet meals
Doesn't mean I won't get mad
At my
Antacid, antacid
My stomach thinks you hate it
Antacid, antacid
He wished I never ate it
Just because I read real slow
& have a complex about cheese
& married an Asian ice flow
Don't mean I can digest grease
Oh,
Antacid, antacid,
Can't we all just get along?
Antacid, antacid,
I mean, in spite of this song?
Now, *that's* sad!
[Later, I write:]
For example, I am having this conversation with you in my head right now:
Me: Hey! Don't eat that!
You: Why not?
Me: It's a bug with staples all in it!
You: I know, I put them there.
Me: But why?
You: He has a soft exoskeleton.
Me: But aren't you going to eat him?
You: Perhaps on a kaiser roll.
Me: Won't the staples get in the way?
You: Does the toothpick in the Schlotsky's sandwich get in *your* way when *you* eat it?
Me: I take it out first.
You: You do?
Me: You're afraid of it getting all runny!
You: Take that back!
Me: You won't eat a runny bug! You won't eat a runny bug!
You: I'll kick your fag ass if you don't take that back!
Me: My fag ass?
You: You have a very homosexual behind.
Me: You think?
You: So do dachsunds, though.
Me: You just said that because they're called "weiner dogs."
You: You have no faith in my abilities, do you?
Me: I take it back.
You: Your faith?
Me: What I said about the runny bug.
You: Why?
Me: It won't get runny, it'll get mooshy.
You: Not with staples in it.
See? Piece of cake!
The email was called "The Mlik Chocolate Melts In Your Hair, Not In Your Hamster"
She told me she was sad, & I wrote this:
You obviously haven't heard The Antacid Song!
Antacid, antacid
You don't understand my tummy
Antacid, antacid
You think I am a dummy
Just because I eat high heels
& travel with the acrobats
& skip all buffet meals
Doesn't mean I won't get mad
At my
Antacid, antacid
My stomach thinks you hate it
Antacid, antacid
He wished I never ate it
Just because I read real slow
& have a complex about cheese
& married an Asian ice flow
Don't mean I can digest grease
Oh,
Antacid, antacid,
Can't we all just get along?
Antacid, antacid,
I mean, in spite of this song?
Now, *that's* sad!
[Later, I write:]
For example, I am having this conversation with you in my head right now:
Me: Hey! Don't eat that!
You: Why not?
Me: It's a bug with staples all in it!
You: I know, I put them there.
Me: But why?
You: He has a soft exoskeleton.
Me: But aren't you going to eat him?
You: Perhaps on a kaiser roll.
Me: Won't the staples get in the way?
You: Does the toothpick in the Schlotsky's sandwich get in *your* way when *you* eat it?
Me: I take it out first.
You: You do?
Me: You're afraid of it getting all runny!
You: Take that back!
Me: You won't eat a runny bug! You won't eat a runny bug!
You: I'll kick your fag ass if you don't take that back!
Me: My fag ass?
You: You have a very homosexual behind.
Me: You think?
You: So do dachsunds, though.
Me: You just said that because they're called "weiner dogs."
You: You have no faith in my abilities, do you?
Me: I take it back.
You: Your faith?
Me: What I said about the runny bug.
You: Why?
Me: It won't get runny, it'll get mooshy.
You: Not with staples in it.
See? Piece of cake!
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Whither Magda's Birthday Show 2008?
There was an old fellow who lived down by the river. He spent the day taking pictures of the water with his mobile phone. He was a lonely sort. He never had anyone to send the pictures to.
In the night he liked to tap on a keyboard with the computer off. He pretended the croaking of the frogs was lyrics to his spasmodic beat. He would never really admit this to anyone. He spent most of his time in his own head.
A big storm came one day upriver. It was almost like it was looking for a place to live. Since he didn't do much upkeep on his home by the river, the old fellow was ill-prepared for the tempest's ferocity. He might even welcome the danger.
He couldn't take his eyes off the storm. He sat on the porch for a while until the pounding rain & the heavy winds started throwing clumps of earth & stones at him. Then he sat inside for a while & tap-tapped on his keyboard. The storm didn't stop. The storm, apparently, didn't want to stop.
Living in his own head, the old fellow couldn't often tell reality from what he wanted to believe was real. The storm was something real that had invaded his head. You can live most of you life in your own head. Love is the kindest kind of thing from the outside that gets in.
The old fellow's storm was the way he felt about someone he met in the real world whose smile had dazzled him. The storm could hurt him, he felt, but so far it had just been astonishing, swirling his life around. Too much to feel, too much to see, senses working overtime on overload, the storm in his head called love.
If he could, he would have made a radio show for his love's birthday. Since I can, I do. For the beautiful woman who makes a storm rage inside me just by existing. How could I not celebrate her birthday?
In the night he liked to tap on a keyboard with the computer off. He pretended the croaking of the frogs was lyrics to his spasmodic beat. He would never really admit this to anyone. He spent most of his time in his own head.
A big storm came one day upriver. It was almost like it was looking for a place to live. Since he didn't do much upkeep on his home by the river, the old fellow was ill-prepared for the tempest's ferocity. He might even welcome the danger.
He couldn't take his eyes off the storm. He sat on the porch for a while until the pounding rain & the heavy winds started throwing clumps of earth & stones at him. Then he sat inside for a while & tap-tapped on his keyboard. The storm didn't stop. The storm, apparently, didn't want to stop.
Living in his own head, the old fellow couldn't often tell reality from what he wanted to believe was real. The storm was something real that had invaded his head. You can live most of you life in your own head. Love is the kindest kind of thing from the outside that gets in.
The old fellow's storm was the way he felt about someone he met in the real world whose smile had dazzled him. The storm could hurt him, he felt, but so far it had just been astonishing, swirling his life around. Too much to feel, too much to see, senses working overtime on overload, the storm in his head called love.
If he could, he would have made a radio show for his love's birthday. Since I can, I do. For the beautiful woman who makes a storm rage inside me just by existing. How could I not celebrate her birthday?
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Preface To Magda's Birthday 2008: Why Is This Particular Birthday So Damn Special?
To answer that, I may need to employ verse. This is a song I've been working on for the past thirteen minutes called "High School Band":
Met a girl from Poland, she was legally sweet
I gave her my broom so she could sweep me off of my feet
She took it as a chauvinist dig about how women
should be the ones doing housework
& punched me in the face for being a total motherfucking jerk.
I know, it doesn't scan yet, unless Bob Dylan were singing it, but it will once I add more profanity & set it to a totally awesome 1987 beat.
For those of you who think it's way too romantic for the likes of me, I will add that I intend to scream "Kill a cop! Cop a kill!" all through the song in a rad back-up mix-up that will play on a frequency which as well can be heard exclusively by Satanists & Christians afraid of Satanic messages.
All of this for the girl called Magda. Why? What is she? Is she some kind of anthropologist extraordinaire? Does she lay golden eggs? Does she use PowerPoint in ways that shame the common academic? Is this why she gets a Self Help Radio birthday show & no one else does?
Can anyone answer such questions? Or can such questions be satisfactorily responded to with another question? Yes & no, & also yes, but also here's something from the opera Carmen which I believe will further obscure what is truly my clearest of intentions:
La fleur que tu m'avais jetée
dans ma prison m'était restée,
flétrie et sèche, cette fleur
gardait toujours sa douce odeur;
et pendant des heures entières,
sur mes yeux, fermant mes paupières,
de cette odeur je m'enivrais
et dans la nuit je te voyais!
Do you see? Must you see?
Also, I lost a library book on the bus yesterday. If you find it, please get it back to me. I am sad about it.
Met a girl from Poland, she was legally sweet
I gave her my broom so she could sweep me off of my feet
She took it as a chauvinist dig about how women
should be the ones doing housework
& punched me in the face for being a total motherfucking jerk.
I know, it doesn't scan yet, unless Bob Dylan were singing it, but it will once I add more profanity & set it to a totally awesome 1987 beat.
For those of you who think it's way too romantic for the likes of me, I will add that I intend to scream "Kill a cop! Cop a kill!" all through the song in a rad back-up mix-up that will play on a frequency which as well can be heard exclusively by Satanists & Christians afraid of Satanic messages.
All of this for the girl called Magda. Why? What is she? Is she some kind of anthropologist extraordinaire? Does she lay golden eggs? Does she use PowerPoint in ways that shame the common academic? Is this why she gets a Self Help Radio birthday show & no one else does?
Can anyone answer such questions? Or can such questions be satisfactorily responded to with another question? Yes & no, & also yes, but also here's something from the opera Carmen which I believe will further obscure what is truly my clearest of intentions:
La fleur que tu m'avais jetée
dans ma prison m'était restée,
flétrie et sèche, cette fleur
gardait toujours sa douce odeur;
et pendant des heures entières,
sur mes yeux, fermant mes paupières,
de cette odeur je m'enivrais
et dans la nuit je te voyais!
Do you see? Must you see?
Also, I lost a library book on the bus yesterday. If you find it, please get it back to me. I am sad about it.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Ten Berths Below
Someone told me something New Mexico. Someone else suggested something else West Virginia. Someone over there told me something over here Dramatis Personae. All this & nothing more! If & only if there aren't several things you need both off your chest & on your knees. I think we understand each other, South Dakota. If only we didn't have to spend the night in this hell-hole I call your life.
Mother father sister brother gene. How fastidious can you cancel out the last lasting vestige of your earliest unremembered memories? Don't try to bullshit a shitbuller. There's only one exit & that one's blue-balled by the Lord.
The only reason your rationale is crumbling like so much crumbly crumble cake is that you're too caught up in squabble with the rabble when you're too crabby to the cabbie. Look around you! It's as if someone made an entire world from Mary Tyler Moore's tears! You're going to break after all!
If there's therapy, then, my friend Ben, you know you can, within your ken, understand that men, now & then, lose, not win. Listen for example to a The Self Help Radio episode or two. Never you mind thematics - whether dysfunction in the family or hot pants in the cold wash, it forces no pills down the throat to keep you swimming. Just listen. Listen & be ill at ease.
Pony Rhode Island!
Mother father sister brother gene. How fastidious can you cancel out the last lasting vestige of your earliest unremembered memories? Don't try to bullshit a shitbuller. There's only one exit & that one's blue-balled by the Lord.
The only reason your rationale is crumbling like so much crumbly crumble cake is that you're too caught up in squabble with the rabble when you're too crabby to the cabbie. Look around you! It's as if someone made an entire world from Mary Tyler Moore's tears! You're going to break after all!
If there's therapy, then, my friend Ben, you know you can, within your ken, understand that men, now & then, lose, not win. Listen for example to a The Self Help Radio episode or two. Never you mind thematics - whether dysfunction in the family or hot pants in the cold wash, it forces no pills down the throat to keep you swimming. Just listen. Listen & be ill at ease.
Pony Rhode Island!