I had this strange memory last night before I fell asleep - it seemed to come out of nowhere. My family lived in these apartments from the time I was in fifth to probably ninth grade, & the apartments were called "Villa Cordoba." (We pronounced it vil-la of course, not vee-ya, because we were dumb white kids.) It was squarely shaped, with doors opening, on the street at the front of the complex, to the street, & the other three sides to the parking lot that surrounded it like a moat. Little patios with stucco walls looked into the complex's center, which had a few apartments, a laundry room, the manager's office, & a pool that was generally never cleaned so was always full of green, green water. At the center of each of the complex's walls was a breezeway, with studio apartments above them (the rest of the apartments were two-story).
My thought - which wasn't quite a dream, because I wasn't asleep yet - was about the breezeway at the back of the apartments, which looked out over a parking lot, of course, & a white fence which separated the complex from the rest of the world, & then a giant Lutheran church with giant lush lawns where we played football & baseball when we were sure worshippers weren't around (you know, when their parking lot wasn't full of cars).
The front breezeway looked into the space where the manager's office was. The two side breezeways looked into the pool area. But the back breezeway, which always seemed very dark to me (maybe because it faced east & was protected from the sun by the church shadow), just looked at a wall. If you didn't know there was a path on which you could go left or right into the complex, you might think it was a dead end.
Why I thought about this place I don't know. I did a show about breezes last week or so, & talked a little about breezeways, & definitely thought of those breezeways of my youth, but it doesn't explain why this memory would appear & haunt me now. Because it did haunt me - I wanted to go to sleep, but my brain was now on fire, trying to remember details like: there was a door, wasn't there, some sort of custodial or storage door, in the south wall, a door I'm sure I tried to open whenever I walked by. Also, my brain wanted to remember if the breezeway smelled - if it were dirtier than the others, since it was darker - or if it were usually clean or cluttered with leaves, cigarette butts, trash.
It was a strange sensation - an irrelevant, uncalled memory suddenly at the forefront of all my thoughts - & me in a vulnerable place, where I had to make an almost physical effort to remove it from my mind, to think about whatever other dumb stuff - dumb, perhaps, but more relevant - I think about before I fall asleep.
I said it haunted me, & obviously it did. I just spent some moments looking through old short stories I used to write before I realized I wasn't very good at it, to see if I described it better back then, when it was certainly closer in time & not subject to all the intervening years & their onerous memories. But alas, no! I am still haunted.
Did I mentioned a new Self Help Radio tomorrow? Look for it in the afternoon.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Old Joke Found In An Old Email
Busy listening to concrete songs today so I have nothing really of value to say. Actually, I am apparently writing in rhyme but you don't care, I do it all the time. & possibly you think I'm awful square for pointing this out to you right then & there. No no no, don't call a cop, I promise, I promise, I'll stop, I'll stop.
No, man, it doesn't scan. If I had time to write a real letter, I'll bet you that all my rhymes would be better. & though it's really some dude's lame journal, you must now notice some rhymes are internal.
Ack! Alack!
I was looking for an email to reproduce for my whaddayacallit "Email Archive Blah Blah" & found an old joke sent to me on September 26, 1996, which made me laugh a full twelve years later. So I excise it from the entire email & share it with you:
Q: Why shouldn't you piss off a Unitarian?
A: Because they'll burn a question mark in your lawn.
Ha ha!
No, man, it doesn't scan. If I had time to write a real letter, I'll bet you that all my rhymes would be better. & though it's really some dude's lame journal, you must now notice some rhymes are internal.
Ack! Alack!
I was looking for an email to reproduce for my whaddayacallit "Email Archive Blah Blah" & found an old joke sent to me on September 26, 1996, which made me laugh a full twelve years later. So I excise it from the entire email & share it with you:
Q: Why shouldn't you piss off a Unitarian?
A: Because they'll burn a question mark in your lawn.
Ha ha!
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Whither Concrete?
A fairer question 'twas never ask'd. For this season, therefore do I placate my modest brow with an ode (like the oddest odists do) to that most hardened of versatile materials, viz. concrete, from the Latin concretus, which (every schoolchild ought know) means "hardened" or "hard" or "hardcore."
Consider this thy then, mine "Ode On Concrete." Written in 1821.
Concrete, concrete, have you any wool?
Nay sir, nay sir, I am instead a construction material composed of cement & sometimes other cement-like materials such as fly ash & slag cement, aggregate, gravel, limestone, granite (these three often mixed with sand), water, and chemicals.
But concrete! Why does thou deny me my rhyme?
For ought not odes rhyme, all the ode-ly time?
Nay sir, nay sir, I'm just a plain material one might find on your highway or sidewalk or sometimes around bunkers in freaky movies where a serial killer lines his murder room with concrete because of the creepy way fluorescent light just kind of hangs on concrete walls like egg whites slowly dripping down, down, down, causing immense despair in the poor victim, shackled & dead by the morning she or he cannot see in the hollow timelessness of the concrete prison.
Uh, okay concrete. Whatever. Just wanted to write an ode here, not speculate on what you daydream about when you're being mixed in one of those trucks.
So, no ode. I was all totally odic, too. If that's a word.
Consider this thy then, mine "Ode On Concrete." Written in 1821.
Concrete, concrete, have you any wool?
Nay sir, nay sir, I am instead a construction material composed of cement & sometimes other cement-like materials such as fly ash & slag cement, aggregate, gravel, limestone, granite (these three often mixed with sand), water, and chemicals.
But concrete! Why does thou deny me my rhyme?
For ought not odes rhyme, all the ode-ly time?
Nay sir, nay sir, I'm just a plain material one might find on your highway or sidewalk or sometimes around bunkers in freaky movies where a serial killer lines his murder room with concrete because of the creepy way fluorescent light just kind of hangs on concrete walls like egg whites slowly dripping down, down, down, causing immense despair in the poor victim, shackled & dead by the morning she or he cannot see in the hollow timelessness of the concrete prison.
Uh, okay concrete. Whatever. Just wanted to write an ode here, not speculate on what you daydream about when you're being mixed in one of those trucks.
So, no ode. I was all totally odic, too. If that's a word.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Preface To Concrete: Lazy Logic
I subscribed a long time ago to a "joke of the day" email thing to make sure one of my stupid online accounts was getting mail because, in those pre-google days, they'd sometimes close the accounts (if they didn't go out of business anyway - r.i.p. startrekmail & muslimmail!) if you didn't have regular email (& of course I'd forget about it anyway). I did it with the account that accesses this blog - & sometimes it's the only mail I have. So. Sometimes I read really, really bad jokes of the day.
The weirdest thing is the "offensive stereotype" joke - for example, if you're from Texas, the putatively stupidest Texan would be someone who went to Texas A & M, or an "Aggie" - has been apparently cleaned up - politically corrected, one might say - in that the subjects of those jokes are called "Antarctans" by this service. Apparently it's all right to offend the few hundred folks who live in Antarctica, but not people who should be smart enough to know that the school you went to doesn't define you. Unless you let it, I suppose. Anyway.
So today's was this sort of "strange but true" "funny thing to think about" series of arbitrary comparisons that might fly in a lame stand-up comic's act (which is probably where it originated), but seems to be monstrously unfunny because of its lazy logic. What's more, it's premise or motif or whatever is "Only in America..." which might also be a little insulting if you're the sort of person who doesn't like this country being dissed.
Here's a couple of just plain bad examples. Remember, they're supposed to be "things to make you stop and think."
- "Only in America can a pizza get to your house faster than an ambulance."
That's not technically true. The only stats I have are from a dumb song where it claims that "22% of the time a pizza arrives faster than an ambulance." That's in Great Britain. But I dunno - lately my pizzas have been coming awful slowly, probably because there are less drivers after gas exploded in price. Anyway, until someone can produce data on this, I call bullshit on it.
- "Only in America are there handicap parking places in front of a skating rink."
This is one of the stupidest. Do they imagine all handicapped ("differently-abled") people are wheelchair-bound? What about amputees with prosthetics? Surely they can ice-skate just fine. & in any event, can a person with a handicap not visit an ice rink? Take his or her family there? What a douchebag this "joke writer" is!
These two are somewhat similar:
- "Only in America do drugstores make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front."
- "Only in America do banks leave both doors open & then chain the pens to the counters."
I think both of these are risk-assessment decisions. The drugs are easier to steal in the drug store than the money in the bank (which is in a safe, with armed guards around for protection). So put the drugs in the back. Leave the bank open (like the drug store does, of course) during business hours. & the pens are chained to make sure not only that people don't walk off with them (because people do, & I'm sure they're not intentionally stealing them) but also so the next customer doesn't have to pick it up off the floor, or dig for it under crap on the counter.
Also, it's not only the sick that visit the pharmacist. We have many reasons to go there, & filling a prescription doesn't necessarily mean we're so gravely ill that a short walk into the bowels of a store would be something like an insult. I should also add that some smokers are pretty sick a lot of the time. Nyah.
- "Only in America do we buy hot dogs in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight."
Do we know that for a fact that it's only in America this happens? I imagine it's also probably true in Canada. Anyway, the Straight Dope answered this to my satisfaction a while ago.
Oh, don't click this link for the meaning of Canadian Hot Dog. Don't say I didn't warn you.
- "Only in America do we use the word 'politics' to describe the process so well: 'Poli' in Latin meaning 'many' and 'tics' meaning 'bloodsucking creatures'."
Of course, that's a dumb etymology, & the word for politics is Dutch is "politiek," in French it's "politique," in German it's "Politik," & in Italian it's "politica," all of which contain "poli" & some word that sounds like "tic."
The word "politics" comes from a Greek root meaning "civic affairs."
I think it's a dumb joke, but I am acting sort of irritated because not only is this purporting to make some sort of point about how crazy America is (even if just for a laugh), but it's now lying to do so.
One last one:
- "Only in America do they have drive-up ATM machines with Braille lettering."
Stop & think about this one. While you are mulling this, another person, someone not as thoughtful as you are, someone who believes that the political correctness mafia has simply gone too far with this nonsense & is a beagle's whisker away from an aneurysm, this person just can't believe all the wasteful motherfucking shit that we do to bend over backwards for one segment of society. Braille on a drive-up keypad! What the fuck?
Except you, like me, can see beyond this little taunt. We have a sense of proportion. We think. We know that people with handicaps aren't just wheelchair bound & should be able, in any case, to visit skating rinks even if they can't themselves skate. (I don't skate & I've been skating rinks. You're allowed.) We look at the big picture. We can surmise things, & then, perhaps, if they seem a little odd, we can check them out. We think this way: the corporate scum at Diebold & places like that who make ATMs (ATM machine is of course redundant) don't get an order like this: "We need 400,000 machines for Texas. Oh, & make 7,000 of them Braille-free for drive-up banking." They simply make the machine, & make them all the same, according to federal & state regulations, & some of them get put in drive-up positions. How fucked would they be if they did the opposite? Plenty. They deserve it, but they're covering their asses. & they're also probably saving money by not having to make two different kinds of ATMs - after all, I have no vision defects & I can use the ones with Braille just fine.
Plus, what if you're with a friend who has impaired vision & you're driving around & he wants to stop at a bank machine? You're going to make your friend get out? Why? There's Braille on the drive-through ATM! That's classy!
The weirdest thing is the "offensive stereotype" joke - for example, if you're from Texas, the putatively stupidest Texan would be someone who went to Texas A & M, or an "Aggie" - has been apparently cleaned up - politically corrected, one might say - in that the subjects of those jokes are called "Antarctans" by this service. Apparently it's all right to offend the few hundred folks who live in Antarctica, but not people who should be smart enough to know that the school you went to doesn't define you. Unless you let it, I suppose. Anyway.
So today's was this sort of "strange but true" "funny thing to think about" series of arbitrary comparisons that might fly in a lame stand-up comic's act (which is probably where it originated), but seems to be monstrously unfunny because of its lazy logic. What's more, it's premise or motif or whatever is "Only in America..." which might also be a little insulting if you're the sort of person who doesn't like this country being dissed.
Here's a couple of just plain bad examples. Remember, they're supposed to be "things to make you stop and think."
- "Only in America can a pizza get to your house faster than an ambulance."
That's not technically true. The only stats I have are from a dumb song where it claims that "22% of the time a pizza arrives faster than an ambulance." That's in Great Britain. But I dunno - lately my pizzas have been coming awful slowly, probably because there are less drivers after gas exploded in price. Anyway, until someone can produce data on this, I call bullshit on it.
- "Only in America are there handicap parking places in front of a skating rink."
This is one of the stupidest. Do they imagine all handicapped ("differently-abled") people are wheelchair-bound? What about amputees with prosthetics? Surely they can ice-skate just fine. & in any event, can a person with a handicap not visit an ice rink? Take his or her family there? What a douchebag this "joke writer" is!
These two are somewhat similar:
- "Only in America do drugstores make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front."
- "Only in America do banks leave both doors open & then chain the pens to the counters."
I think both of these are risk-assessment decisions. The drugs are easier to steal in the drug store than the money in the bank (which is in a safe, with armed guards around for protection). So put the drugs in the back. Leave the bank open (like the drug store does, of course) during business hours. & the pens are chained to make sure not only that people don't walk off with them (because people do, & I'm sure they're not intentionally stealing them) but also so the next customer doesn't have to pick it up off the floor, or dig for it under crap on the counter.
Also, it's not only the sick that visit the pharmacist. We have many reasons to go there, & filling a prescription doesn't necessarily mean we're so gravely ill that a short walk into the bowels of a store would be something like an insult. I should also add that some smokers are pretty sick a lot of the time. Nyah.
- "Only in America do we buy hot dogs in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight."
Do we know that for a fact that it's only in America this happens? I imagine it's also probably true in Canada. Anyway, the Straight Dope answered this to my satisfaction a while ago.
Oh, don't click this link for the meaning of Canadian Hot Dog. Don't say I didn't warn you.
- "Only in America do we use the word 'politics' to describe the process so well: 'Poli' in Latin meaning 'many' and 'tics' meaning 'bloodsucking creatures'."
Of course, that's a dumb etymology, & the word for politics is Dutch is "politiek," in French it's "politique," in German it's "Politik," & in Italian it's "politica," all of which contain "poli" & some word that sounds like "tic."
The word "politics" comes from a Greek root meaning "civic affairs."
I think it's a dumb joke, but I am acting sort of irritated because not only is this purporting to make some sort of point about how crazy America is (even if just for a laugh), but it's now lying to do so.
One last one:
- "Only in America do they have drive-up ATM machines with Braille lettering."
Stop & think about this one. While you are mulling this, another person, someone not as thoughtful as you are, someone who believes that the political correctness mafia has simply gone too far with this nonsense & is a beagle's whisker away from an aneurysm, this person just can't believe all the wasteful motherfucking shit that we do to bend over backwards for one segment of society. Braille on a drive-up keypad! What the fuck?
Except you, like me, can see beyond this little taunt. We have a sense of proportion. We think. We know that people with handicaps aren't just wheelchair bound & should be able, in any case, to visit skating rinks even if they can't themselves skate. (I don't skate & I've been skating rinks. You're allowed.) We look at the big picture. We can surmise things, & then, perhaps, if they seem a little odd, we can check them out. We think this way: the corporate scum at Diebold & places like that who make ATMs (ATM machine is of course redundant) don't get an order like this: "We need 400,000 machines for Texas. Oh, & make 7,000 of them Braille-free for drive-up banking." They simply make the machine, & make them all the same, according to federal & state regulations, & some of them get put in drive-up positions. How fucked would they be if they did the opposite? Plenty. They deserve it, but they're covering their asses. & they're also probably saving money by not having to make two different kinds of ATMs - after all, I have no vision defects & I can use the ones with Braille just fine.
Plus, what if you're with a friend who has impaired vision & you're driving around & he wants to stop at a bank machine? You're going to make your friend get out? Why? There's Braille on the drive-through ATM! That's classy!
Monday, May 11, 2009
Livin' Largesse
New Self Help Radio show (about the breeze, of course) at selfhelpradio.net. In case you weren't paying attention.
May we take a moment, apropos nothing, to talk about regurgitation? That link links to the Wikipedia page about vomiting, & notes that "the two terms are often used interchangeably," but that they're two different processes &, what's more, the "causes of vomiting & regurgitation are generally different."
Members of my family have a deep, deep fear & dislike of vomiting & they can't or won't even try to do it when they're sick. They will leave the room when someone else is vomiting, because the very sound of it (sometimes even on television) will make they start to vomit. I used to be like that - I would only vomit if I absolutely had to, & usually even then I'd fight it.
But not anymore. Now I can vomit when I need to, & sometimes I even vomit preemptively, such as when I've had too much to drink & am about to go to bed, or when I feel something close to food poisoning & I assume that upchucking will make me feel better. While members of my family to this very day will suffer though emesis would relieve their discomfort, I could theoretically purge like a supermodel.
What changed? I had my heart mightily broken many moons ago. (Approximately 225 moons, I reckon.) (That's for my Native American time-keeping friends.) During the aftermath, I couldn't keep food down with any regularity. The merest thought of the one who had devastated me would cause me to throw up, literally. Though I of course got better, steeling my heart to let it get broken again & again, the ease at which I could vomit (& the acceptance I had of it, since I couldn't really stop it) stayed with me. No sticking a finger down a throat for me! If I think I need to ralph, I can do it.
Why this is on my mind I don't know. It certainly has nothing to do with this week's Self Help Radio, which will be about concrete.
May we take a moment, apropos nothing, to talk about regurgitation? That link links to the Wikipedia page about vomiting, & notes that "the two terms are often used interchangeably," but that they're two different processes &, what's more, the "causes of vomiting & regurgitation are generally different."
Members of my family have a deep, deep fear & dislike of vomiting & they can't or won't even try to do it when they're sick. They will leave the room when someone else is vomiting, because the very sound of it (sometimes even on television) will make they start to vomit. I used to be like that - I would only vomit if I absolutely had to, & usually even then I'd fight it.
But not anymore. Now I can vomit when I need to, & sometimes I even vomit preemptively, such as when I've had too much to drink & am about to go to bed, or when I feel something close to food poisoning & I assume that upchucking will make me feel better. While members of my family to this very day will suffer though emesis would relieve their discomfort, I could theoretically purge like a supermodel.
What changed? I had my heart mightily broken many moons ago. (Approximately 225 moons, I reckon.) (That's for my Native American time-keeping friends.) During the aftermath, I couldn't keep food down with any regularity. The merest thought of the one who had devastated me would cause me to throw up, literally. Though I of course got better, steeling my heart to let it get broken again & again, the ease at which I could vomit (& the acceptance I had of it, since I couldn't really stop it) stayed with me. No sticking a finger down a throat for me! If I think I need to ralph, I can do it.
Why this is on my mind I don't know. It certainly has nothing to do with this week's Self Help Radio, which will be about concrete.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Whither Breezes?
Whither indeed! The week breezed by. I am all airy & stuff.
But! New Self Help Radio tomorrow! Catch it - on the breeze!
But! New Self Help Radio tomorrow! Catch it - on the breeze!
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Preface To The Breeze: An Ill Wind Blows
I've been sick for a couple of days, something related to my sinuses, & of course instead of visiting a doctor, which I can theoretically do because I, unlike a substantial number of Americans, have health insurance, I chose instead to diagnose myself on the web, in the same manner I suppose one figures out one's "true age" or the time & date when one will die, but the rest & lack of stress appear to have done me good, so I shan't whine any more about it. (Although I did whine about it on last week's Self Help Radio, which was about nuts, & I am a baby & so must complain about illnesses whenever possible, so please, if you're interested in nuts, or nutty people, or simply want to hear me whinge, go listen!)
As I began to write this, I thought of the phrase, "An ill wind blows nobody any good," & its many variations, which are collected here, which show how old that particular idiom is, & of course the Self Help Radio show this week has absolutely nothing to do with an "ill wind," which a breeze by definition can't really be, or can it?
The definition is "to blow gently & lightly," & one associates breezes with days in which a slight wind would be most refreshing. But the slightness - & perhaps the subtle comfort it gives one - has made it into a verb which means "to proceed quickly & easily," as in: "Gary's Self Help Radio blog is so insubstantial I just breeze through it as though I am reading a twitter message." Because one can breeze through a task - housework, a test, any chore, etc. - the verb returned to the noun realm & made anything easy to do "a breeze."
Will this week's Self Help Radio be a breeze to do? To listen to? Will it help you make your life breezy? That's for me to know & you to find out on Saturday. Now, scoot, before I start to talk about being sick for three days.
As I began to write this, I thought of the phrase, "An ill wind blows nobody any good," & its many variations, which are collected here, which show how old that particular idiom is, & of course the Self Help Radio show this week has absolutely nothing to do with an "ill wind," which a breeze by definition can't really be, or can it?
The definition is "to blow gently & lightly," & one associates breezes with days in which a slight wind would be most refreshing. But the slightness - & perhaps the subtle comfort it gives one - has made it into a verb which means "to proceed quickly & easily," as in: "Gary's Self Help Radio blog is so insubstantial I just breeze through it as though I am reading a twitter message." Because one can breeze through a task - housework, a test, any chore, etc. - the verb returned to the noun realm & made anything easy to do "a breeze."
Will this week's Self Help Radio be a breeze to do? To listen to? Will it help you make your life breezy? That's for me to know & you to find out on Saturday. Now, scoot, before I start to talk about being sick for three days.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Slight Delay Day
Just an FYI: this week's Self Help Radio, which will be dated May 2, 2009, will not appear today. A previous commitment is making me stay away from a helpful computer for most of the day, not counting now, when a helpful computer is helpfully helping me make a lame excuse. Please look for your regularly scheduled Saturday Self Help Radio some time on Sunday, where it is irregularly scheduled. That is all. Wait. No. I'm sure that's it. I'm sorry if it inconveniences you. That wasn't my intention. If anything, I'm inconvenienced. My whole Saturday schedule is ruined. Because of a previous commitment. Which I am not making up. I swear. All right. We're good? You sure? See you tomorrow then at selfhelpradio.net. I hope. No, I promise. I think. Smile & wave, Gary. Smile & wave.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
If It's April's End, There Must Be A Self Help Radio Extra!
& so there is. Please enjoy a new mix of indie musics for this month's Self Help Radio Extra. I've been reading about portmanteau words & have been wondering if I can start calling them "Shrextras." What do you think? No? All right then.
New songs by Art Brut, Au Revoir Simone, Official Secrets Act & stuff mixed with older tunes by Twig, Girl Of The World, Orange Juice & stuff. Self Help Radio Extra. It's like I made you a mixed tape or something, & that means you've GOT to listen to it.
New songs by Art Brut, Au Revoir Simone, Official Secrets Act & stuff mixed with older tunes by Twig, Girl Of The World, Orange Juice & stuff. Self Help Radio Extra. It's like I made you a mixed tape or something, & that means you've GOT to listen to it.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Whither Nuts?
Are you allergic to peanuts? For reals? You could die! We could all die! Check the label! Check the motherfucking label!
Yes, over the course of the last few decades, our toxic culture has made us more & more allergic to everything we co-evolved with. Or has it? Sometimes we're wrong, because we're scared. No "No Nuts" shirts for me, please. I'm chewing peanut butter flavored gum.
For reals, I ain't allergic to any damn thing. Well, maybe cats. But look, I don't eat cats, I just snuggle them & pet them & let them get their dander all over me until my eyes run red & I sneeze like a surfer with sinus drain. It's worth it.
So I ain't allergic to any damn thing except cats. I sure as hell ain't allergic to any damn pea motherfucking nut. Although I confess I could give or take almonds. Yes, even in marzipan. I don't know why. I just feel... Not connected to the almond. You know? You understand? You feel me?
I don't think I've eaten a nut today. Oh yes I have! I had pine nuts on my spinach salad for lunch! Or were those sunflower seeds... Well, then, I'm going to get some peanut m&ms. Or maybe a butterfinger. But not an almond joy! Don't you try to trick me with an almond joy! That shit's got both almonds (about which I've already shared my ambivalence) & coconut! That's just cruel, that's schoolkid cruel. Some school bully invented almond joy mos def.
Okay, I'm getting dizzy writing in both a white-guy-pretending-to-talk-in-hip-hop-slang & a-snotty-type. You can't hear the voices in your head, but I can, & it's giving my brain whiplash. It's making me nutty!
Full circle. Hot diggety!
Yes, over the course of the last few decades, our toxic culture has made us more & more allergic to everything we co-evolved with. Or has it? Sometimes we're wrong, because we're scared. No "No Nuts" shirts for me, please. I'm chewing peanut butter flavored gum.
For reals, I ain't allergic to any damn thing. Well, maybe cats. But look, I don't eat cats, I just snuggle them & pet them & let them get their dander all over me until my eyes run red & I sneeze like a surfer with sinus drain. It's worth it.
So I ain't allergic to any damn thing except cats. I sure as hell ain't allergic to any damn pea motherfucking nut. Although I confess I could give or take almonds. Yes, even in marzipan. I don't know why. I just feel... Not connected to the almond. You know? You understand? You feel me?
I don't think I've eaten a nut today. Oh yes I have! I had pine nuts on my spinach salad for lunch! Or were those sunflower seeds... Well, then, I'm going to get some peanut m&ms. Or maybe a butterfinger. But not an almond joy! Don't you try to trick me with an almond joy! That shit's got both almonds (about which I've already shared my ambivalence) & coconut! That's just cruel, that's schoolkid cruel. Some school bully invented almond joy mos def.
Okay, I'm getting dizzy writing in both a white-guy-pretending-to-talk-in-hip-hop-slang & a-snotty-type. You can't hear the voices in your head, but I can, & it's giving my brain whiplash. It's making me nutty!
Full circle. Hot diggety!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Preface To Nuts: Live Bloggins?
It's true, I'm a live bloggins, while I am sitting in on a KVRX show called "Goosfand," playing Middle Eastern music & the like. It has nothing to do with anything, except I may put the show up at selfhelpradio.net at some point & I'm a little nuts anyway.
It's not really live bloggins, though, is it, if I wait until I'm done to post it. That means I'm not nuts, I'm lame. Oh well. At least we're not friends on Facebook & you can hassle me about it.
Or do you want to be friends on Facebook?
I just read this spot from State Farm which thanks "our armed forces" for making sure we can have a Memorial Day, & I was thinking, while I was reading it, isn't it weird that I am thanking armed forces who are over in one of the parts of the world where the music I'm playing comes from, & their presence has probably resulted in the deaths of countless musicians who might otherwise be making music that could be played on shows like this one? Is that what they call irony?
I'm not blaming them! They're not deliberately killing musicians!
Okay, that's it, no more live bloggins for me. I'll continue to pretape my bloggins.
It's not really live bloggins, though, is it, if I wait until I'm done to post it. That means I'm not nuts, I'm lame. Oh well. At least we're not friends on Facebook & you can hassle me about it.
Or do you want to be friends on Facebook?
I just read this spot from State Farm which thanks "our armed forces" for making sure we can have a Memorial Day, & I was thinking, while I was reading it, isn't it weird that I am thanking armed forces who are over in one of the parts of the world where the music I'm playing comes from, & their presence has probably resulted in the deaths of countless musicians who might otherwise be making music that could be played on shows like this one? Is that what they call irony?
I'm not blaming them! They're not deliberately killing musicians!
Okay, that's it, no more live bloggins for me. I'll continue to pretape my bloggins.
Monday, April 27, 2009
O Salty Humans, How You Disappoint Me
I have told you, my friends, of the story of the tiger & the 1965 Chrysler 300L Convertible, have I not? Please remember that story as I tell you, then, of my recent problems with the constabulary. You all know Sheriff Stephanie, do you not? A finer specimen of law & order gung-ho hobbiting I've never seen. But after a fortnight - & two fortdays - I had been perhaps weaving if not ducking on the side roads near the tavern sponsored by corporate largesse. It may have been easier had I brought along my trusty two-wheeled unicycle. From out the bushes, then! Sheriff Stephanie & her merry man! Slapped the cuffs on me as though it were no big deal! I could've outrun them, I swear, if not for my sneaky respect for the rule of law.
My Uncle Danko, the shyster, was on speed dial in no time, but I did enjoy a lukewarm Hot Pocket & the lusty stories of chatty felons for several hours before they woke Judge Happenstance from his twice-yearly self-imposed coma & he meted out my penance & perjury. A sorrier excuse for petroleum jelly I have never seen! His forelocks numbered three & he chose not to respect any nor all outbursts in his vicinity. Were it not for the screaming, burning statue of immodest justice coming down upon his bench like a childish definition of irony I would perhaps still be in that courtroom today, wheeling, dealing, wrangling, dangling, high-fiving the neighbor's kids when we were stoked.
No, this is neither the time nor also the place for mannerly self-congratulation, but the lesson I wish to impart has less to do with what I think than what I think you think. Please, before we disappear into the empty expanse of timed outages, let yourself be free of cackling shackles & hollering hierarchies, yes, even if you must indeed inhale the fingerprint dust from the outstretched palm of a cross-eyed bailiff. Because I am saddened by your lack of enthusiasm for even the most torpid boredom, my friends, my friends, despite the hurricanes & the hurricants, you would be well-lubricated to forego whatsoever is required if only to be stand-offish & mischievous.
I know! Go surfing! Listen to a primer here. What's the worst that could happen, besides drowning & shark-bite? & wouldn't that happen to you anyway? Be honest!
My Uncle Danko, the shyster, was on speed dial in no time, but I did enjoy a lukewarm Hot Pocket & the lusty stories of chatty felons for several hours before they woke Judge Happenstance from his twice-yearly self-imposed coma & he meted out my penance & perjury. A sorrier excuse for petroleum jelly I have never seen! His forelocks numbered three & he chose not to respect any nor all outbursts in his vicinity. Were it not for the screaming, burning statue of immodest justice coming down upon his bench like a childish definition of irony I would perhaps still be in that courtroom today, wheeling, dealing, wrangling, dangling, high-fiving the neighbor's kids when we were stoked.
No, this is neither the time nor also the place for mannerly self-congratulation, but the lesson I wish to impart has less to do with what I think than what I think you think. Please, before we disappear into the empty expanse of timed outages, let yourself be free of cackling shackles & hollering hierarchies, yes, even if you must indeed inhale the fingerprint dust from the outstretched palm of a cross-eyed bailiff. Because I am saddened by your lack of enthusiasm for even the most torpid boredom, my friends, my friends, despite the hurricanes & the hurricants, you would be well-lubricated to forego whatsoever is required if only to be stand-offish & mischievous.
I know! Go surfing! Listen to a primer here. What's the worst that could happen, besides drowning & shark-bite? & wouldn't that happen to you anyway? Be honest!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Unsafesurfer
I am punning on a Julian Cope song I'll probably play tomorrow on the show. It's a show about surfing, although I am not above playing, for example, a song about couch surfing, which isn't at all dangerous unless you are friends with psychopaths, & snail surfing, which is something I just made up. I have no idea what the Julian Cope song is about, but it sounds comforting - "You don't have to be afraid, love, 'cause I'm a safe surfer, darling." & the song was written before there was much of an online world, too, so it can't be about computer viruses & modem condoms. (Okay, I just made up modem condoms too.)
Storm's a-brewin' in Austin town this afternoon, & I hope I get some wind & rain slapped in my face & (if I'm lucky) a giant magnolia blossom will knock the toupee off our governor's head. I just wanted to remind you that, no matter the weather, no matter how land-locked you are, you'll be surfing with Self Help Radio tomorrow in the afternoon. & all through the night, if you want. I'm easy like that. (& I'm not making that up.)
Storm's a-brewin' in Austin town this afternoon, & I hope I get some wind & rain slapped in my face & (if I'm lucky) a giant magnolia blossom will knock the toupee off our governor's head. I just wanted to remind you that, no matter the weather, no matter how land-locked you are, you'll be surfing with Self Help Radio tomorrow in the afternoon. & all through the night, if you want. I'm easy like that. (& I'm not making that up.)
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Whither's Surf's Up?
I knew this dude once who had a typical story, which surfer lore is replete with, & that story is this: some person in some career, be it bagboy or CEO, insurance agent or loan shark, finds his or her way to California or Hawaii for something like a vacation or time off, is cajoled into (or actually is interested in) surfing, & likes it so much, they give up everything to live near the beach so they can surf, surf, surf all the livelong day.
Surfing is a strange culture & it's only because I wanted to read more about it that I decided to do a show about surfing. I confess I am less interested in the twangy Dick Dale style of playing that has become known as "surf rock" (a sub-category of surf music) than in the whole attitude of people writing music about what is basically a leisure activity. There's more adrenaline, of course, which may explain why there's not such a thing as "golf music" (although a Google search turns up an Amazon page of lounge music called "golf music that swings!" implying, I guess, that famous golfers like Bing Crosby meant their music to accompany the game). There's also, of course, physically fit people in swimsuits. Craggy old men in embarrassing hats on a golf course can't compete.
Surf media, though, hasn't really interested me. I never liked the "beach blanket" movies of the 60's. As a big fan of Deadwood, I was willing to give creator David Milch's John From Cincinnati a fair shake, but it wasn't a very interesting show, although I do love me some Garret Dillahunt. It seemed to make the whole prospect of becoming a surfer a lot like becoming a junkie - you give up everything for your "fix" & live in a kind of tattooed squalor. But the songs seem to celebrate a lot more.
I'm of course just thinking out loud & certainly don't want to offend any surfers (or any junkies, for that matter), & this is just the mindset (or mind-un-set as the case may be) as I gather surf songs for Self Help Radio this week. & no, I'll probably never surf, not just because I'm afraid of jellyfishes (they sting!) but because I have a bad back & would hate to love surfing & then hurt myself so I couldn't surf again. It would be like my relationship with peanut butter cups all over again.
Surfing is a strange culture & it's only because I wanted to read more about it that I decided to do a show about surfing. I confess I am less interested in the twangy Dick Dale style of playing that has become known as "surf rock" (a sub-category of surf music) than in the whole attitude of people writing music about what is basically a leisure activity. There's more adrenaline, of course, which may explain why there's not such a thing as "golf music" (although a Google search turns up an Amazon page of lounge music called "golf music that swings!" implying, I guess, that famous golfers like Bing Crosby meant their music to accompany the game). There's also, of course, physically fit people in swimsuits. Craggy old men in embarrassing hats on a golf course can't compete.
Surf media, though, hasn't really interested me. I never liked the "beach blanket" movies of the 60's. As a big fan of Deadwood, I was willing to give creator David Milch's John From Cincinnati a fair shake, but it wasn't a very interesting show, although I do love me some Garret Dillahunt. It seemed to make the whole prospect of becoming a surfer a lot like becoming a junkie - you give up everything for your "fix" & live in a kind of tattooed squalor. But the songs seem to celebrate a lot more.
I'm of course just thinking out loud & certainly don't want to offend any surfers (or any junkies, for that matter), & this is just the mindset (or mind-un-set as the case may be) as I gather surf songs for Self Help Radio this week. & no, I'll probably never surf, not just because I'm afraid of jellyfishes (they sting!) but because I have a bad back & would hate to love surfing & then hurt myself so I couldn't surf again. It would be like my relationship with peanut butter cups all over again.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Preface To Surf's Up: Screw The Surf, Last Week's Show Is Up
Got it? Get it? Good!
Last week's Self Help Radio, which is about enemies, is available now for your listening pleasure at selfhelpradio.net. Which is the same link as the link for Self Help Radio. Also, it's the same link for the word "link". Can't have too many links, that's what I say. I might even link the Self Help Radio address to a link for Google while I'm at it. Who's going to stop me? The police?
Anyway, go listen. I finally finished it. I hope you didn't become my enemy because it was late.
Last week's Self Help Radio, which is about enemies, is available now for your listening pleasure at selfhelpradio.net. Which is the same link as the link for Self Help Radio. Also, it's the same link for the word "link". Can't have too many links, that's what I say. I might even link the Self Help Radio address to a link for Google while I'm at it. Who's going to stop me? The police?
Anyway, go listen. I finally finished it. I hope you didn't become my enemy because it was late.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Last Week's Self Help Radio Is On The Way!
I know, when I had to take a week off (or at least be gone the day my show was on) when Self Help Radio was on the radio, I tended to just skip the week or get someone to sub the show. But since Self Help Radio is a podcast now (but may not remain one in the future - more on that later as developing developments develop) I imagined I could come in from a long weekend, sit up & finish a new show a mere twenty-four hours late. But I couldn't. I didn't. But I will!
Yes, sir, I've been making last week's show in my head all day today & will put it together tomorrow. You heard me! Last Saturday's show will debut this Tuesday! & not only that - there'll be a new show Saturday! What do you think about that, haters? You hate it? Well, you by definition would. It seems like such an awful job title - "hater." What does that pay? Very well, you say? Good for you!
Tomorrow I'll have a Self Help Radio for you. I promise. & I hardly ever keep my promises, but this time, for you, I will. Because I don't want to disappoint the state of West Virginia. It's true.
Yes, sir, I've been making last week's show in my head all day today & will put it together tomorrow. You heard me! Last Saturday's show will debut this Tuesday! & not only that - there'll be a new show Saturday! What do you think about that, haters? You hate it? Well, you by definition would. It seems like such an awful job title - "hater." What does that pay? Very well, you say? Good for you!
Tomorrow I'll have a Self Help Radio for you. I promise. & I hardly ever keep my promises, but this time, for you, I will. Because I don't want to disappoint the state of West Virginia. It's true.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Whither Enemies?
Yes, this week's show is about enemies. Here's what the Oxford Elephant's Dictionary says about enemies: "They say what they mean & when they say it, they're mean. Enemies are disloyal percent one-hundred thirteen!" Taking that as a cue, & refusing to attend a notoriously homo-conservative "tea-bagging" party this week, the staff & workman's compensation director of The Self Help Radio sat in their den &, over Ovaltine & mah-jongg, decided they didn't have a care in the world, at least not until sundown, when, the electricity turned off & the candles nothing but wicks, they'd have to sit in the dark & smoke their pipes (not in a homo-conservative way, you understand) until the sun came up again.
As it says in the Bibble, "Lo, & on the eighteenth day of April did a massive homo-conservative horde with teabagging yet to come descend in the dreams of every third unhappy male frog of indiscriminate gender. & the staff did cry out, O why? O why? For is there not something else on the television nor a snappy indie tune we can play in the car until the battery gasps low? & the staff did wail, & someone named Nash took out his teeth, & splendid were the controversial tire rims, which rotateth not the direction in which the car did move. & the staff shall sing out, I shall maketh a radio show against mine enemies, & it shall possibly rock."
I'm not a big fan of Bibble-prophecy, as my friends in my Bibble-study class know, but I do believe that the ancient sages & bookies who wrote the Bibble (you know the story - filled with the spirit of the Holy Odd, scribbling away on napkins while dribbling away down their shirts) knew something I didn't know, & while that almost certainly was about prostitutes & not prophecy (& anyway, we covered that a couple of weeks ago), I do know the idea of a radio show about enemies is a fine one, since frankly a person without enemies is like a Bibble-study class without porn.
Which reminds me: this week's show may be a little late, as I will be out of town from tomorrow to Sunday night. Please forgive. I'll make the show extra homo-conservative just for you. & this blog will also be silent, which is fine, because even if you are in fact reading it right now (which you aren't), it's not really here. Just you, & Bibble-porn.
As it says in the Bibble, "Lo, & on the eighteenth day of April did a massive homo-conservative horde with teabagging yet to come descend in the dreams of every third unhappy male frog of indiscriminate gender. & the staff did cry out, O why? O why? For is there not something else on the television nor a snappy indie tune we can play in the car until the battery gasps low? & the staff did wail, & someone named Nash took out his teeth, & splendid were the controversial tire rims, which rotateth not the direction in which the car did move. & the staff shall sing out, I shall maketh a radio show against mine enemies, & it shall possibly rock."
I'm not a big fan of Bibble-prophecy, as my friends in my Bibble-study class know, but I do believe that the ancient sages & bookies who wrote the Bibble (you know the story - filled with the spirit of the Holy Odd, scribbling away on napkins while dribbling away down their shirts) knew something I didn't know, & while that almost certainly was about prostitutes & not prophecy (& anyway, we covered that a couple of weeks ago), I do know the idea of a radio show about enemies is a fine one, since frankly a person without enemies is like a Bibble-study class without porn.
Which reminds me: this week's show may be a little late, as I will be out of town from tomorrow to Sunday night. Please forgive. I'll make the show extra homo-conservative just for you. & this blog will also be silent, which is fine, because even if you are in fact reading it right now (which you aren't), it's not really here. Just you, & Bibble-porn.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Preface To Enemies: A List Of Enemies
In preparation for a show about enemies, a look over embattled protagonists throughout history is both edifying & necessary, & truly who was most embattled (not least in his own mind) than the American president who, until the last eight years, seemed like the worst possible occupant of the Oval Office, & that's Richard Nixon. Did you know he kept a list of his enemies? & don't you know if you keep a list of your enemies, it's bound to leak?
Well, I'm not worried, as I am publishing my enemies list right here, right now. No leaks necessary! Like always, I leak myself. Wait.
This is, however, a partial list, as I don't have my original list with me currently. I sent it to Kinko's to be laminated. I kept spilling soda all over it. It got a little soggy. Don't worry about the incomplete quality of this list - the rest is mainly the attendance lists of all my classes in school from first grade to twelfth. It's a big list.
These are the top eleven enemies of ME.
11. Jeff "Stickbug" Handleman. For questioning my honor in an online forum - repeatedly - when really all I wanted to find out was when the new season of Law & Order: Criminal Intent was starting.
10. Marjorie Johnson-Jones. For breaking my heart, then, because you're a perfectionist, coming back to break it again more properly. Ow. Ow.
09. Hornsby Police Chief Herman Dorsey. I'll just say this: that was my favorite thumb. You fascist!
08. Holden Caufield. Look, I know he's a fictional character. But he is my enemy all the same.
07. Camelia Morris. I didn't want to be in your stupid book club anyway. I hate you!
06. Some of my brothers, both of my sisters. If I must explain, let's talk a little about my fourth birthday, & slowly work our way up to the present, shall we?
05. Some of my mother, most of my father. You don't think I know how you've held me back? The genetic material you bequeathed me was only the start!
04. Rust. It seems like rust is always there, around the corner, on the corner, on the metal post at the corner. But I will have my revenge when I remove its precious oxygen!
03. That dog who shall not be named. You know who you are. & I know you read this blog. Or at least your owner does. Because you've got him fooled too! But not me!
02 Tim Robbins. Oh he knows why. He's just lucky he's smarter than David Schwimmer, because Schwimmer pissed me off & look what I did with his career. Hah!
01 My greatest enemy is imaginary. It might even be imagination itself. Mocking me. Taunting me. & it hates you, too.
If you want to be on my enemies list, drop me a line. It's certainly more fun than being on my friends list!
Well, I'm not worried, as I am publishing my enemies list right here, right now. No leaks necessary! Like always, I leak myself. Wait.
This is, however, a partial list, as I don't have my original list with me currently. I sent it to Kinko's to be laminated. I kept spilling soda all over it. It got a little soggy. Don't worry about the incomplete quality of this list - the rest is mainly the attendance lists of all my classes in school from first grade to twelfth. It's a big list.
These are the top eleven enemies of ME.
11. Jeff "Stickbug" Handleman. For questioning my honor in an online forum - repeatedly - when really all I wanted to find out was when the new season of Law & Order: Criminal Intent was starting.
10. Marjorie Johnson-Jones. For breaking my heart, then, because you're a perfectionist, coming back to break it again more properly. Ow. Ow.
09. Hornsby Police Chief Herman Dorsey. I'll just say this: that was my favorite thumb. You fascist!
08. Holden Caufield. Look, I know he's a fictional character. But he is my enemy all the same.
07. Camelia Morris. I didn't want to be in your stupid book club anyway. I hate you!
06. Some of my brothers, both of my sisters. If I must explain, let's talk a little about my fourth birthday, & slowly work our way up to the present, shall we?
05. Some of my mother, most of my father. You don't think I know how you've held me back? The genetic material you bequeathed me was only the start!
04. Rust. It seems like rust is always there, around the corner, on the corner, on the metal post at the corner. But I will have my revenge when I remove its precious oxygen!
03. That dog who shall not be named. You know who you are. & I know you read this blog. Or at least your owner does. Because you've got him fooled too! But not me!
02 Tim Robbins. Oh he knows why. He's just lucky he's smarter than David Schwimmer, because Schwimmer pissed me off & look what I did with his career. Hah!
01 My greatest enemy is imaginary. It might even be imagination itself. Mocking me. Taunting me. & it hates you, too.
If you want to be on my enemies list, drop me a line. It's certainly more fun than being on my friends list!
Monday, April 13, 2009
Glenrothes One-Way
It's another Monday, so there's another Self Help Radio which happened over the weekend. Did you miss it? Why or what not?
A few years ago, when I was coffee-maker & lookout for a rogue pizza parlor in Garland, Texas, I knew this dude who never bathed, never brushed his teeth, never washed his clothes - he was kind of like a college boy who's gone Rastafari - he's tell me, "I am the incarnation of death, pleasure & pain." He boasted that he went "on the hunt" in red light districts - but frankly, though Garland, Texas, at the time had a thriving rogue pizza industry, we didn't have any red light districts. The Baptists wouldn't let us.
So he meets this girlie he calls "Doll." She says, "The media image of beauty has left many men & women broken. Some become anorexic or bulimic, while others turn to plastic surgery in search of the perfect look." Doll therefore complimented her creepy beau by claiming to be "the incarnation of those whom suffer from cosmetic surgery addiction & have died as a result of it." She stapled skin to her skin so it would look like her skin was falling off. I don't really know whose skin she stapled to her own skin. I didn't get close enough to find out.
They're both my friends on Facebook now. I have nothing to say to them. So I recommended this week's Self Help Radio.
A few years ago, when I was coffee-maker & lookout for a rogue pizza parlor in Garland, Texas, I knew this dude who never bathed, never brushed his teeth, never washed his clothes - he was kind of like a college boy who's gone Rastafari - he's tell me, "I am the incarnation of death, pleasure & pain." He boasted that he went "on the hunt" in red light districts - but frankly, though Garland, Texas, at the time had a thriving rogue pizza industry, we didn't have any red light districts. The Baptists wouldn't let us.
So he meets this girlie he calls "Doll." She says, "The media image of beauty has left many men & women broken. Some become anorexic or bulimic, while others turn to plastic surgery in search of the perfect look." Doll therefore complimented her creepy beau by claiming to be "the incarnation of those whom suffer from cosmetic surgery addiction & have died as a result of it." She stapled skin to her skin so it would look like her skin was falling off. I don't really know whose skin she stapled to her own skin. I didn't get close enough to find out.
They're both my friends on Facebook now. I have nothing to say to them. So I recommended this week's Self Help Radio.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Synonyms for Nonsense
Babble. Blather. Blatherskite. Gabble. Gibberish. Jabber. Jabberwocky. Twaddle. Balderdash. Bunkum. Claptrap. Drivel. Piffle. Poppycock. Rigmarole. Tommyrot. Applesauce. Baloney. Horse feathers. Bilge. Hooey. Malarkey. Bull. Bunk. Folly. Foolishness. Hogwash. Hot air. Jive. Mumbo jumbo. Rubbish. Trash. Tripe. Blarney. Moonshine. Bosh. Guff. Codswallop. Flapdoodle. Hokum. Gobbledygook. Monkey business. Shenanigans. Hanky-panky. Eyewash. Phooey.
Nonsense!
Nonsense!