That's right, the "theme" of this week's show is unweildily entitled "Here I/You/He/She/It/We/They Come." Perhaps it would be easier if I had written "[adverb] [pronoun] [verb]," but if I had done that, the show could mean "there you are" or "happily she dances." I wanted the show to feature prominently the construction HERE [pronoun] COME(S).
Either way, trying to explain what this week's theme is (never mind why I chose it) makes it seem like either a) I am a prim grammarian who is attempting to educate while condescending to entertain, or b) I am a lunatic who has discovered pronouns but only can understand them in the context of one sentence.
As far as I know, neither is true, although I don't sleep well & could very well be hallucinating this computer in front of me & am instead typing on my new puppy's head. I imagine that's not the case, but I can't be sure. Who sleeps well, anyway? Is that something reserved for children & puppies? I bet the war criminals that run the United States government sleep well, though. They must, knowing that they control pretty much everything. Hmmph!
But I confess I don't really understand the theme myself, or am being coy about it, so trying to explain may be more confusing. Anyway, here goes: I will be playing songs that are called &/or prominently feature the phrasal construction "here I come," "here you come," "here he comes," "here she comes," "here it comes," "here we come," or "here they come." There are, as you might imagine, a few songs that contain that phrase. I'll play the ones that I like that do.
That didn't seem so confusing. Now I shall attempt to explicate Fermat's next-to-the-last theorum. (The easy one.)
(One excuse/caveat/mea culpa/parenthetical remark: I haven't really found anything that is titled or contains the phrase "here they come," but the Monkees theme song keeps coming to mind, & I'm not going to play that, not even for money.)
It's darker earlier here. It's totally creeping me out.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Hate Inside
I am not liking myself all that much right now because I am a monstrous fuck-up, but I will just say that I baked a delicious radio show last Friday all about pie, & you can listen to it over at selfhelpradio.net.
Other than that, I have nothing to say. I must go beat myself up some more.
Other than that, I have nothing to say. I must go beat myself up some more.
Friday, November 09, 2007
25 Shows To Go!
I announced earlier this week that, because of personal reasons that will probably include my leaving Austin, I will only be on the air on KOOP radio for one more season. (KOOP's seasons run from May to October, November to April.) This does NOT mean the end of Self Help Radio. I plan to continue to make unlistenable podcasts for as long as I have breath in my computer, & hopefully wherever I end up, there'll be some place I can ply my trade. Probably not, but a girl can dream.
So that means that I have only twenty-five more Self Help Radios on KOOP. That's insane! How many Self Help Radios have I done previously? My rough count is 248 - which means I won't get to the big three oh oh - although if you count the other shows I've subbed - including shows that no longer exist like Pot Luck & The Doctor's Office - maybe there would be close to three hundred shows...
Speaking of, this weekend I'll be doing two other shows besides today's Self Help Radio (which, you know, is all about pie!): Big Band & Classic Jazz tomorrow & Mojo Time on Sunday. My version of Big Band & Classic Jazz is going to feature the great clarinetists of early jazz, & Mojo Time will be a Veteran's Day show featuring a prominent post-World War II genre of the blues: jump blues!
So don't be sad. Just make sure you experience me while you still can. For another, you know, six months.
This is going to be the longest break-up ever.
So that means that I have only twenty-five more Self Help Radios on KOOP. That's insane! How many Self Help Radios have I done previously? My rough count is 248 - which means I won't get to the big three oh oh - although if you count the other shows I've subbed - including shows that no longer exist like Pot Luck & The Doctor's Office - maybe there would be close to three hundred shows...
Speaking of, this weekend I'll be doing two other shows besides today's Self Help Radio (which, you know, is all about pie!): Big Band & Classic Jazz tomorrow & Mojo Time on Sunday. My version of Big Band & Classic Jazz is going to feature the great clarinetists of early jazz, & Mojo Time will be a Veteran's Day show featuring a prominent post-World War II genre of the blues: jump blues!
So don't be sad. Just make sure you experience me while you still can. For another, you know, six months.
This is going to be the longest break-up ever.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
How Long Has It Been Since I've Gotten The Wind Knocked Out Of Me?
I dunno. But what a scary feeling that is!
It's fascinating (to me) that getting the wind knocked out of you is related to hiccups. At the bottom of the page, there's a list of people who had the hiccups long-term. One dude, Charles Orborne, apparently hiccuped for 68 years. I have nightmares about that shit.
I wonder if people called him "Hiccuping Chuck."
Also, did they change the spelling to "hiccough" (even though it's always pronounced hick-up) because it somehow seems more classy? How come the Word Detective doesn't have this answer for me?
Ah, but having an emotional wind-knocked-out-of-me moment - that still happens. Ooooofff!
It's fascinating (to me) that getting the wind knocked out of you is related to hiccups. At the bottom of the page, there's a list of people who had the hiccups long-term. One dude, Charles Orborne, apparently hiccuped for 68 years. I have nightmares about that shit.
I wonder if people called him "Hiccuping Chuck."
Also, did they change the spelling to "hiccough" (even though it's always pronounced hick-up) because it somehow seems more classy? How come the Word Detective doesn't have this answer for me?
Ah, but having an emotional wind-knocked-out-of-me moment - that still happens. Ooooofff!
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Whither Pie?
Who wants pie?
Pie, as many have gradually surmised, is usually only typical in the vernacular when common knowledge (or "understanding") has failed or will fail the explication. Therefore, instances of pie nominally indicate pertinent or latent failure, while the absence of pie, or the negation of the possibility of pie, should signify or herald certain success in the discussion.
Why then would most people prefer the placement of pie in the general area of the discussion?
As usual, the great philosophers of history, & their closest friends, have chosen to hedge their bets in this atomic dissection of human behavior. The great Flautis of Norma mentioned that, "Section a pie into eight, ten, twelve, a dozen slices, there is never enough pie!" (In Norma, a dozen was considerably more than twelve. He wasn't stupid or anything.)
In Germany during the Renaissance, the Ulmberg scholar Von Fredinhole declared, "The filling fills us!" (The German, "Das Fillingung Ist Uns Gefilledup!" is generally thought to be less interesting than any translation.)
Even American philosophers, usually tending bar after World War II, have evaded the question rather than answer it. "Shut your pie-hole, pie-eye! Have some pie with your pie in the sky!"
Linguists trying to find their way into the great disagreement have also sleepily missed the point: who cares where the word came from? Are those real peaches or canned?
Yet, as the pie industry overtakes the scone industry in most industrial countries, a wonderment of sorts is inevitable: if pies are outlawed, those who chose to ignore a monstrously dumb law shall enjoy the pies. But also all the cursed ignominy of pie karma. For that is the way the universe has thus far chosen to work.
As Pali Wallah Doodl, the great ascetic from several years before the birth of Chrysler, once put it: "Good heavens look at all these pies! Tell me please is there really shoo fly in the shoo fly pie? Or else may I have a slice?"
Pie, as many have gradually surmised, is usually only typical in the vernacular when common knowledge (or "understanding") has failed or will fail the explication. Therefore, instances of pie nominally indicate pertinent or latent failure, while the absence of pie, or the negation of the possibility of pie, should signify or herald certain success in the discussion.
Why then would most people prefer the placement of pie in the general area of the discussion?
As usual, the great philosophers of history, & their closest friends, have chosen to hedge their bets in this atomic dissection of human behavior. The great Flautis of Norma mentioned that, "Section a pie into eight, ten, twelve, a dozen slices, there is never enough pie!" (In Norma, a dozen was considerably more than twelve. He wasn't stupid or anything.)
In Germany during the Renaissance, the Ulmberg scholar Von Fredinhole declared, "The filling fills us!" (The German, "Das Fillingung Ist Uns Gefilledup!" is generally thought to be less interesting than any translation.)
Even American philosophers, usually tending bar after World War II, have evaded the question rather than answer it. "Shut your pie-hole, pie-eye! Have some pie with your pie in the sky!"
Linguists trying to find their way into the great disagreement have also sleepily missed the point: who cares where the word came from? Are those real peaches or canned?
Yet, as the pie industry overtakes the scone industry in most industrial countries, a wonderment of sorts is inevitable: if pies are outlawed, those who chose to ignore a monstrously dumb law shall enjoy the pies. But also all the cursed ignominy of pie karma. For that is the way the universe has thus far chosen to work.
As Pali Wallah Doodl, the great ascetic from several years before the birth of Chrysler, once put it: "Good heavens look at all these pies! Tell me please is there really shoo fly in the shoo fly pie? Or else may I have a slice?"
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Preface To Pie: Let's Get All The Naughty Euphemisms Out Of The Way First, Shall We?
Self Help Radio is by no means related to or otherwise in cahoots with the American Pie Council. However, should they send me pies, I will not be rude & refuse to eat them. Just so they know.
Since I am not allowed to be naughty at all on the radio, except to maybe snicker a little, I won't be able to note without blushing &/or getting in trouble with the FCC that "pie" is often used as a euphemism for female genitalia. Commonly, the phrase used is "hair pie." It sounds awful when put that way, but it surely says something about how men feel & have felt about the sex of a woman if they use the word "pie" to describe it. Because pies are awesome.
Other nasty uses of the word "pie"? I am ashamed to admit there are lots. I will simply refer you to the Urban Dictionary so as not to make you blush.
Interestingly, it's also apparently used to describe a kilo of cocaine. Also delicious, but not in a way I could probably now appreciate. Damn my age!
Since I am not allowed to be naughty at all on the radio, except to maybe snicker a little, I won't be able to note without blushing &/or getting in trouble with the FCC that "pie" is often used as a euphemism for female genitalia. Commonly, the phrase used is "hair pie." It sounds awful when put that way, but it surely says something about how men feel & have felt about the sex of a woman if they use the word "pie" to describe it. Because pies are awesome.
Other nasty uses of the word "pie"? I am ashamed to admit there are lots. I will simply refer you to the Urban Dictionary so as not to make you blush.
Interestingly, it's also apparently used to describe a kilo of cocaine. Also delicious, but not in a way I could probably now appreciate. Damn my age!
Monday, November 05, 2007
Crosswalks: Another View
There is happy news abrewing - it's KOOP's new season! You can check out new shows & show changes over at KOOP's home page. I'm pretty excited that the show that will precede mine with be Justin's The House Call. It's a fine show, even if Justin is a weirdo.
But there is sad news - this will be my last season on KOOP. Only 25 more on-air Self Help Radios to go! I'll continue the show as a podcast as I leave KOOP & Austin, but it won't be the same as the on-air experience, & you don't like me enough to continue listening if it's just downloading. But I'll make a big deal about it anyway. I am a crybaby. Stay tuned!
Meanwhile, if you missed Friday's show, you can listen to it in its entirety over at my webpage. It was fun. It had classical music & poetry. You will be sad you missed it.
As for crosswalks - who do they think they're kidding anyway?
But there is sad news - this will be my last season on KOOP. Only 25 more on-air Self Help Radios to go! I'll continue the show as a podcast as I leave KOOP & Austin, but it won't be the same as the on-air experience, & you don't like me enough to continue listening if it's just downloading. But I'll make a big deal about it anyway. I am a crybaby. Stay tuned!
Meanwhile, if you missed Friday's show, you can listen to it in its entirety over at my webpage. It was fun. It had classical music & poetry. You will be sad you missed it.
As for crosswalks - who do they think they're kidding anyway?
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Gentle Cheese, In The Motherly Fashion
I was going to call this post "You phone-fuck like a faggot," because I was incautiously listening to the Kathy McGinty pranks at work today, but I thought you might get offended. So I won't. I don't even know what it means. I would think, actually, that homosexual men, being generally more sexually experimental than I am (& I am for the purpose of this useless conversation a representative of heterosexual men all throughout the world & time), would probably phone-fuck much better than I could or do (& I don't really phone-fuck) (I never have, actually), & therefore the comment is kind of a compliment. Unless you're offended by the word "faggot." I don't mean to use the word to offend, but in the world today, most people don't really care about intent. Words are scary. They get people angry. Some people would prefer you not even use some of them.
My own opinion is that context is everything. It's like an episode of a cop show where a hero cop is being accused of being corrupt or sexually assaulting someone or something, & the cop's superior says, "Well I've known Officer Blah for twenty years & he's never been accused of this, & so I doubt this accusation has merit." That makes total sense to me. Why jump to conclusions? Why not stand by your friends & colleagues? But most of the time people assume bad things. I think it's because we're insecure & believe even the people we're sure love us hate us. Get someone to accuse you of something awful & make sure they're able to be completely serious, & target someone you think would stand beside you through thick & thin. Nine times out of ten, only a little coaxing will make your closest friends suspect the worst about you.
No, don't do that. It's life-shattering. Instead, keep reading this blog for advice that won't be at all helpful.
I'm sure I meant to talk about something else today. But instead I feel like I've been accused of something awful, & you believe every word of it. That's what I get for dreaming of having a chest tube put in!
My own opinion is that context is everything. It's like an episode of a cop show where a hero cop is being accused of being corrupt or sexually assaulting someone or something, & the cop's superior says, "Well I've known Officer Blah for twenty years & he's never been accused of this, & so I doubt this accusation has merit." That makes total sense to me. Why jump to conclusions? Why not stand by your friends & colleagues? But most of the time people assume bad things. I think it's because we're insecure & believe even the people we're sure love us hate us. Get someone to accuse you of something awful & make sure they're able to be completely serious, & target someone you think would stand beside you through thick & thin. Nine times out of ten, only a little coaxing will make your closest friends suspect the worst about you.
No, don't do that. It's life-shattering. Instead, keep reading this blog for advice that won't be at all helpful.
I'm sure I meant to talk about something else today. But instead I feel like I've been accused of something awful, & you believe every word of it. That's what I get for dreaming of having a chest tube put in!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Whither Indiepop A To Z # 11?
As the year comes to a close, my yearly promise to do an indiepop a to z every two months can also be seen as coming to a close. Or can it? Am I married to this? I am just at a Cs! What the hell?
I was thinking how much fun it would be to maintain multiple lines of stuff like this - "Country Blues A To Z" or "Electronica A To Z" or "1960s European Garage Rock A To Z." I wouldn't get any sleep at all.
But I can do it twice more this year, & maybe into the next year. I think I'm planning on it. I quite enjoy it.
Oh, & I know this Friday will be the FIRST week of November & not the LAST week of October, but I have always done a Halloween show, so I bumped the IPA2Z for a week. Didn't you love the zombie show? Then shut the hell up.
There is some BIG or possibly SAD or maybe just HUH! news about Self Help Radio coming up, but I'll wait until next week to tell it. I am simply padding my blog because I feel like I must write about two hundred words a day or else I won't be allowed to be considered a "writer" by my pretentious friends. I think I'm there, so now I need to go draw a couple of pages of a little pig walking to be considered an "animator" by my dorky friends. It's too bad there's nothing other than smoking I can do to be considered a "smoker" by my cool friends. Rats!
I was thinking how much fun it would be to maintain multiple lines of stuff like this - "Country Blues A To Z" or "Electronica A To Z" or "1960s European Garage Rock A To Z." I wouldn't get any sleep at all.
But I can do it twice more this year, & maybe into the next year. I think I'm planning on it. I quite enjoy it.
Oh, & I know this Friday will be the FIRST week of November & not the LAST week of October, but I have always done a Halloween show, so I bumped the IPA2Z for a week. Didn't you love the zombie show? Then shut the hell up.
There is some BIG or possibly SAD or maybe just HUH! news about Self Help Radio coming up, but I'll wait until next week to tell it. I am simply padding my blog because I feel like I must write about two hundred words a day or else I won't be allowed to be considered a "writer" by my pretentious friends. I think I'm there, so now I need to go draw a couple of pages of a little pig walking to be considered an "animator" by my dorky friends. It's too bad there's nothing other than smoking I can do to be considered a "smoker" by my cool friends. Rats!
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Preface To Indiepop A To Z # 11 - I Am Dumb
Oh, rats, I meant to write earlier & tell everyone that I was going to be on KVRX tonight, on the wonderful King Philip XII & Kimriffic Hour, & I was, but telling you now - since I didn't record it & KVRX doesn't archive it - is stupid. I am dumb.
Much thanks to Kim & to Philip for having this old KVRXer back in their building on their air waves. It has literally been over eight years since I had a show there & over seven since I set foot in any station called "KVRX." One of the first things I did when I walked in was find a CD I reviewed in 1994. It was a Julian Cope CD.
We talked about witches, & KOOP, & KVRX, & drug laws, & Casper the Friendly Ghost, & whether King Philip XII should have a court jester &... Well, I'm sorry you missed it. It's all my fault.
Rats. But I had such a great time, so yay! But I forgot to include you. Rats.
But yay!
Much thanks to Kim & to Philip for having this old KVRXer back in their building on their air waves. It has literally been over eight years since I had a show there & over seven since I set foot in any station called "KVRX." One of the first things I did when I walked in was find a CD I reviewed in 1994. It was a Julian Cope CD.
We talked about witches, & KOOP, & KVRX, & drug laws, & Casper the Friendly Ghost, & whether King Philip XII should have a court jester &... Well, I'm sorry you missed it. It's all my fault.
Rats. But I had such a great time, so yay! But I forgot to include you. Rats.
But yay!
Monday, October 29, 2007
When I Was Newer Waved
In the cold harbor town of Zelaot, two types of thugs rule the roost: 1) The mean kind. & 2) The asshole kind. The mean kind can be assholes, but the asshole kind are rarely mean.
It made it both hard & easy for Sheriff Dylan Lennon to show up & make the cold harbor town a warm place for the good citizens. You know, the ones who didn't lie, steal, cheat, murder, fart, cry, whoop it up, skiv, bear false witness, bear true witness, cannibalize, overcook, felch, frot or fail.
How did he do it? How did he destroy the obligatory Martian Cartel & save the small hamlet from roof rot? Easy! He used last Friday's episode of Self Help Radio!
Self Help Radio (tm) kills 99% of all household jerks DEAD. Or it could if it were made by Roctor & Bamble. Instead, it simply sounds a hell of a lot like the show as it aired the previous Friday.
Skeptical? You should be! The once-prosperous town of Zelaot sure was, & they fell into the sea!
Visit selfhelpradio.net to find out how you can make a radio show work for you.
No responsible for lost items or rare blood diseases. Consult your analyst before using Self Help Radio. For copyright reasons, this program is not available on the moon.
It made it both hard & easy for Sheriff Dylan Lennon to show up & make the cold harbor town a warm place for the good citizens. You know, the ones who didn't lie, steal, cheat, murder, fart, cry, whoop it up, skiv, bear false witness, bear true witness, cannibalize, overcook, felch, frot or fail.
How did he do it? How did he destroy the obligatory Martian Cartel & save the small hamlet from roof rot? Easy! He used last Friday's episode of Self Help Radio!
Self Help Radio (tm) kills 99% of all household jerks DEAD. Or it could if it were made by Roctor & Bamble. Instead, it simply sounds a hell of a lot like the show as it aired the previous Friday.
Skeptical? You should be! The once-prosperous town of Zelaot sure was, & they fell into the sea!
Visit selfhelpradio.net to find out how you can make a radio show work for you.
No responsible for lost items or rare blood diseases. Consult your analyst before using Self Help Radio. For copyright reasons, this program is not available on the moon.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Day Of The Zombiez
This blog has two great pieces of news today.
The first piece of news is about today's Self Help Radio, which will air from 4:30 to 6:00pm CST on 91.7 fm KOOP Austin, also on the web live at koop.org. (I'll archive it this weekend so you can listen, if you want, over the Halloween week.)
1) The show is about zombies. I have more songs about the living dead today than you have brains for zombies to eat. Word.
2) I have very special guests today. They are none other than the illustrious Kim & Philip from the King Philip XII & Kim-rific Hour on KVRX Tuesdays. I am a fan of their show, & they've promised to bring lots of information about zombies up to the show today & make me feel kinda dumb.
The second piece of news is something someone asked me to do a while ago & I finally got around to doing it, & I hope to do it fairly regularly (monthly to start), which is this: make a mix that is not as radio-oriented as Self Help Radio - a CD-length series of songs that sound good & taste swell on your ear buds.
Introducing: Self Help Radio EXTRA!.
It's a mix of music I've been digging lately, a lot of it new, all of it awesome. It's saved as a single mp3 so you can just listen to it as a mix - without any of the airbreaks, radio spots, or other interruptions that makes radio the truly fucking annoying medium it is. Wait. I shouldn't say such things!
Please have a taste of Self Help Radio EXTRA!, & look at the lengths I'll go to get some friends off my back.
& please listen to Self Help Radio today! It'll scare the week out of you, just in time for the Halloween weekend!
The first piece of news is about today's Self Help Radio, which will air from 4:30 to 6:00pm CST on 91.7 fm KOOP Austin, also on the web live at koop.org. (I'll archive it this weekend so you can listen, if you want, over the Halloween week.)
1) The show is about zombies. I have more songs about the living dead today than you have brains for zombies to eat. Word.
2) I have very special guests today. They are none other than the illustrious Kim & Philip from the King Philip XII & Kim-rific Hour on KVRX Tuesdays. I am a fan of their show, & they've promised to bring lots of information about zombies up to the show today & make me feel kinda dumb.
The second piece of news is something someone asked me to do a while ago & I finally got around to doing it, & I hope to do it fairly regularly (monthly to start), which is this: make a mix that is not as radio-oriented as Self Help Radio - a CD-length series of songs that sound good & taste swell on your ear buds.
Introducing: Self Help Radio EXTRA!.
It's a mix of music I've been digging lately, a lot of it new, all of it awesome. It's saved as a single mp3 so you can just listen to it as a mix - without any of the airbreaks, radio spots, or other interruptions that makes radio the truly fucking annoying medium it is. Wait. I shouldn't say such things!
Please have a taste of Self Help Radio EXTRA!, & look at the lengths I'll go to get some friends off my back.
& please listen to Self Help Radio today! It'll scare the week out of you, just in time for the Halloween weekend!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wash This Space
I regret that I never learned how to scratch. It looks & sounds like a lot of fun. I have pretty big hands, though, & I'm old, old, old, &, as they always taught us, scratchin' is a young man's game.
God, I was such a snob when I first heard scratching. I'm actually still somewhat snobby - although I call it being OPINIONATED - but not uppity - & one way I am still snobby is I can be very dismissive of things because of context. I totally think that's valid, by the way - there's time enough to prove me wrong if you give a shit what I think, baby.
But I was like thirteen when I first heard that Grandmaster Flash song & it pains to remember my sniffly, "That's not music!" I probably also said "Hrrumph!" just like that, because I had read it in a Richie Rich comic & thought people actually said "Harrumph!" when they were indignant. What a maroon. Why didn't I get beat up more - or at all?
Anyway, this has nothing to do with what I want to tell you, but I'll tell you tomorrow. I have TWO things to tell you tomorrow. But that's tomorrow. Today - well, I'll dream that I learned how to scratch.
God, I was such a snob when I first heard scratching. I'm actually still somewhat snobby - although I call it being OPINIONATED - but not uppity - & one way I am still snobby is I can be very dismissive of things because of context. I totally think that's valid, by the way - there's time enough to prove me wrong if you give a shit what I think, baby.
But I was like thirteen when I first heard that Grandmaster Flash song & it pains to remember my sniffly, "That's not music!" I probably also said "Hrrumph!" just like that, because I had read it in a Richie Rich comic & thought people actually said "Harrumph!" when they were indignant. What a maroon. Why didn't I get beat up more - or at all?
Anyway, this has nothing to do with what I want to tell you, but I'll tell you tomorrow. I have TWO things to tell you tomorrow. But that's tomorrow. Today - well, I'll dream that I learned how to scratch.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Whither Zombies?
The zombies will be here any minute. I have only a little time to write. To anyone out there who gets this message - Austin Texas is overrun by zombies!! & it's not even South By Southwest!
This is how we heard that it happened: It seems that, a week ago, at one of those "humorous" driver's ed classes they convince you to take to not have to pay more insurance, a group of fundamentalist evangelical born-again college Republicans & a slightly terrified group of bored hypersensitive acne-scarred virgin physicists & biology majors from several Austin universities - all of whom just happened to be there - got into a conversation about "creating life" & "the Endtimes" (a witness there said that it was like watching two groups of people who spoke different languages talking & acting like they understood one another). They apparently really hit it off.
Armed only with ideas, a Bible (curiously, that was out of ideas), & the keys to a chemistry lab, the science nerds first cooked up some meth, then, with the born-agains praying & egging them on, they apparently discovered a way to make inanimate objects come back to life. When the meth lab exploded (as meth labs must inevitably do), the bodies were mixed with the formula, & soon there were zombies rushing throughout the entire campus.
This unholy group had soon consumed most of the city below the river (which, you know, the city could totally live with), but a blockade at the bridges over Ladybird Lake failed when the zombies found a way to use the little paddleboats to cross. Also, due to a recent reenactment of the Charles Whitman shootings, & the beginning of Hunting Season, the city was experiencing a shotgun shortage.
I am currently locked in my offices, but there are zombies at the door. I've managed to meet a beautiful woman & I was thinking that, with the end being so near & all, she might be interested in some kind of relationship, but it turns out she's more attracted to my girlfriend. Just my luck. I have however managed to build a homemade taser. I am totally ready to make a run for it.
Please do NOT come to Austin unless you can help. Right now, the plan is to lead them up I-35 & get them to Georgetown where we hope they'll be meet the people who live them &, noticing all they have in common, will blend in with the population & settle down to enjoy the strip malls & chain restaurants & the endless waiting in cars in between buying stuff & sleep.
Rats! They've broken down the doors! Got to go!
This is how we heard that it happened: It seems that, a week ago, at one of those "humorous" driver's ed classes they convince you to take to not have to pay more insurance, a group of fundamentalist evangelical born-again college Republicans & a slightly terrified group of bored hypersensitive acne-scarred virgin physicists & biology majors from several Austin universities - all of whom just happened to be there - got into a conversation about "creating life" & "the Endtimes" (a witness there said that it was like watching two groups of people who spoke different languages talking & acting like they understood one another). They apparently really hit it off.
Armed only with ideas, a Bible (curiously, that was out of ideas), & the keys to a chemistry lab, the science nerds first cooked up some meth, then, with the born-agains praying & egging them on, they apparently discovered a way to make inanimate objects come back to life. When the meth lab exploded (as meth labs must inevitably do), the bodies were mixed with the formula, & soon there were zombies rushing throughout the entire campus.
This unholy group had soon consumed most of the city below the river (which, you know, the city could totally live with), but a blockade at the bridges over Ladybird Lake failed when the zombies found a way to use the little paddleboats to cross. Also, due to a recent reenactment of the Charles Whitman shootings, & the beginning of Hunting Season, the city was experiencing a shotgun shortage.
I am currently locked in my offices, but there are zombies at the door. I've managed to meet a beautiful woman & I was thinking that, with the end being so near & all, she might be interested in some kind of relationship, but it turns out she's more attracted to my girlfriend. Just my luck. I have however managed to build a homemade taser. I am totally ready to make a run for it.
Please do NOT come to Austin unless you can help. Right now, the plan is to lead them up I-35 & get them to Georgetown where we hope they'll be meet the people who live them &, noticing all they have in common, will blend in with the population & settle down to enjoy the strip malls & chain restaurants & the endless waiting in cars in between buying stuff & sleep.
Rats! They've broken down the doors! Got to go!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Preface To Zombies: Are We Dead Yet?
I was asked by the woman with whom I live (is she a girlfriend? is she a partner? why would we give a shit about such labels?) while previewing songs for my show this week, which will be about zombies, why the songs keep mentioned shopping malls in relation to zombies. All I could say is that, in the zombie movies I've seen, the people being chased by zombies end up a lot in shopping malls. I don't know why that is. Except that it might be handy - food & weapon-wise - to be in a shopping mall when one is being chased by zombies.
Also, there is the ironic note that most shoppers in a mall are zombie-like - as close to being zombies while still alive as possible - so zombies are quite at home in a mall because it's made for zombie-ish beings.
I feel I should also point out that I've never been involved in a zombie walk. Not because I didn't want to, but because I've never been asked. But maybe I shouldn't wait to be asked - I should just get involved.
I have nothing really to say in this preface except I haven't been in a mall in probably a decade. Mostly I miss the nachos. & the bored & cute goth girls at the Body Shop. Where are their zombies, like Prince Harmings, coming to take them away?
Why do a show about zombies? Ask me tomorrow.
Also, there is the ironic note that most shoppers in a mall are zombie-like - as close to being zombies while still alive as possible - so zombies are quite at home in a mall because it's made for zombie-ish beings.
I feel I should also point out that I've never been involved in a zombie walk. Not because I didn't want to, but because I've never been asked. But maybe I shouldn't wait to be asked - I should just get involved.
I have nothing really to say in this preface except I haven't been in a mall in probably a decade. Mostly I miss the nachos. & the bored & cute goth girls at the Body Shop. Where are their zombies, like Prince Harmings, coming to take them away?
Why do a show about zombies? Ask me tomorrow.
Monday, October 22, 2007
My Teeth Seem Unhappy
I had two or three comments about our dying republic, but I was instead reminded that you don't care any more - that you have in fact lost the will to want more - & also you had some interesting black & white photographs you wanted me to want you to sign - all to the tune of particularly tiresome 80's rhythm & blues - the type with lots of plunked bass sounds created by synthesizers made almost entirely out of cheese - so I decided instead to eschew the regular rant in famous of something that holds as much water as a healthy kidney: self-promotion.
Is it promotion if I just tell you what it is that I do regularly? Does it offend you if you knew I'd do it anyway?
Here it is: I do this show, about which this blog is loosely based, & every week I take this show, about which this blog is tightly biased, & archive it on a website, which was created for that purpose. That website is called selfhelpradio.net & there you can find last week's show (the theme of which was "Go!" & during which I became slightly intoxicated thanks to a strange mis-use of calomine lotion) there. It should cheer you up, or, if you're sufficiently cheered up, it should depress the hell out of you.
Don't believe me? Then go listen. I'll be here when you return with your tail between your legs.
Is it promotion if I just tell you what it is that I do regularly? Does it offend you if you knew I'd do it anyway?
Here it is: I do this show, about which this blog is loosely based, & every week I take this show, about which this blog is tightly biased, & archive it on a website, which was created for that purpose. That website is called selfhelpradio.net & there you can find last week's show (the theme of which was "Go!" & during which I became slightly intoxicated thanks to a strange mis-use of calomine lotion) there. It should cheer you up, or, if you're sufficiently cheered up, it should depress the hell out of you.
Don't believe me? Then go listen. I'll be here when you return with your tail between your legs.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Like A Cold-Cocked Swami On The Road To Satori
Busy is my middle name. Busy busy busy. Busy busy busy are my three middle names. I like to write in this blog at least four times a week, weather permitting, but I was too busy to write yesterday. I know that made the entire state of Delaware unhappy, but, in my defense, they're not all that cheery to begin with. They only have three counties! It's like being Luxembourg!
Sanitation issues aside, I will continue my tradition of doing radio shows on Friday today as well as the eminently boring tradition of discussing what must be to you highly uninteresting dreams. To wit. I woke up less than an hour ago in which I had a dream wherein:
- I was on a plane & was conscripted to hand food out to the passengers;
- I ended up in New York with a crazy woman trapped in a giant, newly made "Hobbit Park";
- & I visited another community radio station & it was like a compound, with the people there not wanting to discuss "business" with me & what appeared to be entire families sleeping in the halls.
I could go into more details, & I will, only I won't write them down. I could also talk more about the show I will do today in about seven hours, & I will, but only on the telephone with my optometrist. What? So he cares about such things. You should be so lucky to have an eye doctor who takes an interest in something other than your eyes!
But I will say this, as I am constantly saying & as you pretend you don't hear: Self Help Radio, the "Go" show, five years on the air oh wow!, at 4:30 pm CST, live on koop.org, archived this weekend at selfhelpradio.net. Tune in. I am asking sweetly.
Sanitation issues aside, I will continue my tradition of doing radio shows on Friday today as well as the eminently boring tradition of discussing what must be to you highly uninteresting dreams. To wit. I woke up less than an hour ago in which I had a dream wherein:
- I was on a plane & was conscripted to hand food out to the passengers;
- I ended up in New York with a crazy woman trapped in a giant, newly made "Hobbit Park";
- & I visited another community radio station & it was like a compound, with the people there not wanting to discuss "business" with me & what appeared to be entire families sleeping in the halls.
I could go into more details, & I will, only I won't write them down. I could also talk more about the show I will do today in about seven hours, & I will, but only on the telephone with my optometrist. What? So he cares about such things. You should be so lucky to have an eye doctor who takes an interest in something other than your eyes!
But I will say this, as I am constantly saying & as you pretend you don't hear: Self Help Radio, the "Go" show, five years on the air oh wow!, at 4:30 pm CST, live on koop.org, archived this weekend at selfhelpradio.net. Tune in. I am asking sweetly.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Whither Go?
I started doing Self Help Radio five years ago this month. My playlists from 2002 show that I did my first Wednesday show as "Self Help Radio" on October 9. But I really had a show for a few weeks before that. I just wasn't posting playlists.
Because I am a sentimental fluff, I have decided that, every October, I'll "re-do" a show as an anniversary tribute to the show. I buy myself a nice dinner, pay a prostitute to make fun of me, & pour gasoline on myself in a room made of plastic. & if I live through it, I revisit an old theme.
Last year it was "Weekends." There's no playlist for it on my playlists from 2002 page (although mp3s of the show & the playlist are on my playlists from 2006 page) because I did it on a Friday. So too did I do this week's theme, which is an exploration of songs with the word "go" in them, on a Friday. So unless you were listening - & I know you weren't - you won't know what I played then & what I'll play now. Nyah.
Happy anniversary to me! Five years is a long time to be doing the same thing. Ah, who am I kidding. I've been doing the same thing for years. Still, happy anniversary to me!
Because I am a sentimental fluff, I have decided that, every October, I'll "re-do" a show as an anniversary tribute to the show. I buy myself a nice dinner, pay a prostitute to make fun of me, & pour gasoline on myself in a room made of plastic. & if I live through it, I revisit an old theme.
Last year it was "Weekends." There's no playlist for it on my playlists from 2002 page (although mp3s of the show & the playlist are on my playlists from 2006 page) because I did it on a Friday. So too did I do this week's theme, which is an exploration of songs with the word "go" in them, on a Friday. So unless you were listening - & I know you weren't - you won't know what I played then & what I'll play now. Nyah.
Happy anniversary to me! Five years is a long time to be doing the same thing. Ah, who am I kidding. I've been doing the same thing for years. Still, happy anniversary to me!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Preface To "Go!": Floss In The Pocket, Page Nine
(This is an excerpt from a novel I will write in the future when I am strapped to a chair during the Star Trek/Star Wars Wars of 2032. I will have placed it into a time capsule which I dug up in my backyard thirteen years ago. To the sound of cats sneezing.)
"Ah, the sound of cats sneezing!"
"Why do you say such things?" said I to the aetherized sky.
"Why do you require such explanations?" said the sky. Or did it?
Surely a talking sky was the least of my concerns. On a dying planet, a sky does not talk, but cries.
& on the fourth day, it rained buns.
"Is this the way you cry, my friend the talking sky?" said I to the bun-filled heavens.
"Jesus," replied the sky, "were you dropped on an obvious tree & hit every branch on the way down?"
"Let's us not argue let's," said I. "Instead, let's us listen to the music in the air let's."
But there was no more music to be heard. Instead, the avant guards made noises with the clipped samples from old, old informercials. What else could we do? We danced.
& on the seventh day, the world began its decades-long death rattle.
"Oh shit," said the sky.
But I was not sad. Not in the leastest.
"Ah," said the sky. "You fuckers with short lifespans get all the breaks."
"Tee hee," said I.
(Page ten may or may not appear some time in the past. You might want to wait, however, until it will be published nearly a quarter century from now.)
"Ah, the sound of cats sneezing!"
"Why do you say such things?" said I to the aetherized sky.
"Why do you require such explanations?" said the sky. Or did it?
Surely a talking sky was the least of my concerns. On a dying planet, a sky does not talk, but cries.
& on the fourth day, it rained buns.
"Is this the way you cry, my friend the talking sky?" said I to the bun-filled heavens.
"Jesus," replied the sky, "were you dropped on an obvious tree & hit every branch on the way down?"
"Let's us not argue let's," said I. "Instead, let's us listen to the music in the air let's."
But there was no more music to be heard. Instead, the avant guards made noises with the clipped samples from old, old informercials. What else could we do? We danced.
& on the seventh day, the world began its decades-long death rattle.
"Oh shit," said the sky.
But I was not sad. Not in the leastest.
"Ah," said the sky. "You fuckers with short lifespans get all the breaks."
"Tee hee," said I.
(Page ten may or may not appear some time in the past. You might want to wait, however, until it will be published nearly a quarter century from now.)
Monday, October 15, 2007
That Line That People Didn't Hear The First Time
I like to come & write in my blog on Mondays because no one really fears the monkeys like I do on a Monday. Let me rephrase that. Normally the monkeys are not "scary," yet we fear them. Isn't that what they tell you when you take your first Signs & Omens class? That fear is not at all about being scared of scary things? No? The kids these days. I tell you.
Anyway, the monkeys being at bay (wherever bay may be) (may be bay be?), I am usually, of a Monday, able to come around to your domicile or workstall & say, in my bloggish way, I know you didn't listen to my show on Friday because I saw you getting arrested on "Cops" on Saturday, but since I know you got out on bail on Sunday, I'll write to you here on Monday & tell you you can listen to the show you missed all the rest of this week, because it's available on selfhelpradio.net...
But I can't say that today. & it's not just because of the monkeys. Although they probably were involved with you getting arrested on Friday.
I can't say that not because there wasn't a show on Friday - there was, even though the monkeys tried to stop it, as usual - but I can't put it out there for you to listen to because it was programmed by my apprentices, & they have yet to send me their playlist. The nerve! After all I've done for them! Raising them from whelps into whippersnappers! I feel so neglected!
What I can share with you is this: I subbed Mojo Time yesterday & played lots of scratchy country blues for ninety minutes, & that show is available over at selfhelpradio.net. Does that make you happy? Is there anything else I can do for you?
Let me know. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Ack! Monkeys!
Anyway, the monkeys being at bay (wherever bay may be) (may be bay be?), I am usually, of a Monday, able to come around to your domicile or workstall & say, in my bloggish way, I know you didn't listen to my show on Friday because I saw you getting arrested on "Cops" on Saturday, but since I know you got out on bail on Sunday, I'll write to you here on Monday & tell you you can listen to the show you missed all the rest of this week, because it's available on selfhelpradio.net...
But I can't say that today. & it's not just because of the monkeys. Although they probably were involved with you getting arrested on Friday.
I can't say that not because there wasn't a show on Friday - there was, even though the monkeys tried to stop it, as usual - but I can't put it out there for you to listen to because it was programmed by my apprentices, & they have yet to send me their playlist. The nerve! After all I've done for them! Raising them from whelps into whippersnappers! I feel so neglected!
What I can share with you is this: I subbed Mojo Time yesterday & played lots of scratchy country blues for ninety minutes, & that show is available over at selfhelpradio.net. Does that make you happy? Is there anything else I can do for you?
Let me know. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Ack! Monkeys!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Except All The Runners Are Lame (Literally)
Since the show is about the weather today, can I point you at a URL where you can listen to an entire record of weather songs?
Then go here for Singing Science Records. Oh boy!
The weather is getting pretty in Texas now. I like when Austin cools down a little, when the sun is not a scorcher but a warmer. As I wrote this, I thought three things:
1) Boy, weather is kind of a dull thing to talk about.
2) But, isn't it something that we always talk about?
3) & isn't that because it's kind of like an introduction - you know, "How's the weather out there?" Or, "It looks like rain!"
Why do human beings have such a hard time talking about things that matter? Is it because we're fundamentally afraid someone will disagree with us? Or that someone will be provoking an argument?
I dunno. Tomorrow on Self Help Radio, though, we talk about the weather. Dig.
Then go here for Singing Science Records. Oh boy!
The weather is getting pretty in Texas now. I like when Austin cools down a little, when the sun is not a scorcher but a warmer. As I wrote this, I thought three things:
1) Boy, weather is kind of a dull thing to talk about.
2) But, isn't it something that we always talk about?
3) & isn't that because it's kind of like an introduction - you know, "How's the weather out there?" Or, "It looks like rain!"
Why do human beings have such a hard time talking about things that matter? Is it because we're fundamentally afraid someone will disagree with us? Or that someone will be provoking an argument?
I dunno. Tomorrow on Self Help Radio, though, we talk about the weather. Dig.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Whither The Weather?
Oh my god, thank you my apprentices for that awesome title for this blog! I know, it's a Mr Show quote, but still - how often do I get to quote Mr Show?
All I can say is, good for my apprentices! (They'll be doing the show this week, & they thought up this theme.) I mean, everyone talks about the weather, but no one does an entire radio show about it!
You should tune in! Listen to Apprentice Gary & Apprentice Stephanie do their thing! This Friday at 4:30pm CST on the air at 91.7 fm & online live at koop.org. We might even have weather reports. Oh, but please god, no Weather Report. That would make me sad.
All I can say is, good for my apprentices! (They'll be doing the show this week, & they thought up this theme.) I mean, everyone talks about the weather, but no one does an entire radio show about it!
You should tune in! Listen to Apprentice Gary & Apprentice Stephanie do their thing! This Friday at 4:30pm CST on the air at 91.7 fm & online live at koop.org. We might even have weather reports. Oh, but please god, no Weather Report. That would make me sad.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Preface To The Weather Show: A Brief History Of Apprenticing
It's often said that there are no more good ideas, or that at the very least all the best ideas have already been thunk up. Maybe so. But it seems like a lot of the good ideas haven't yet been used, so maybe the people who think up good ideas are just waiting to see the current ones get some action before working on more.
Take, for example, apprenticing. In general, we don't apprentice anymore. Or maybe we just call it "interning," since an intern can be made to do menial work & not necessarily be promised to learn a trade or craft. But surely the idea of a newcomer learning from an old hand is a good one. & it's one that seems beneficial to both - after all, if you have to teach your own work, you learn more about it, like learning a different language helps you examine your own.
Nothing I am saying here is in the least bit profound, & wouldn't be to a blacksmith in 1513. But for an enterprise as fraught with complication as "community radio," it seems like a broadcast station with virtually no paid staff, run on a shoestring budget with virtually every task done by volunteers, it seems like such an entity would want the best possible way - not to mention the cheapest & least onerous - to have brand new participants learn as quickly as possible the ins & outs of not only the mechanism for making radio, but also how the station works. Therefore: an apprenticeship system.
When I came to KOOP in 2000, the training process was perfuctory at best: three consecutive Mondays of "training," a ten question "test," & you were left to do what you needed to do as a volunteer. Most of the people who came to be "trained" left - there was nothing there to encourage your participation in KOOP except your own motivation. & by the way, there was also no reason for you to even hope to get a show, but that's another story.
I stuck it out because I love doing radio, & I'm also creepily stubborn. I became part of KOOP's Training Team & watched as dozens of great people came to KOOP & then left, simply because the station didn't have a process to nurture involvement. Surely that could be changed! Surely there was a good idea out there so we didn't have to invent one!
In 2005, I took part in a process to redefine the training system & the programming policies. You can see those policies here. One part of the policies is that now training takes a little longer than a month. More like six months. & while you're being trained, you are assigned to a current KOOP programmer - as an apprentice - to learn the ropes. You're given something to do as you become involved.
I don't know if KOOP did anything like this in its first ten or so years of existence, but boy, isn't it a good idea?
This is a long-winded way of saying that I have two great appentices this season & I am giving them my show this week. They want to do a show about the weather. Okay! I'll be there to make sure nothing gets broken - you know, except my heart - but it's all them. Ninety minutes of apprentices gone wild. & why not give them the show? How else are they gonna learn how crazily easy it is to do Self Help Radio.
Oh, wait.
Take, for example, apprenticing. In general, we don't apprentice anymore. Or maybe we just call it "interning," since an intern can be made to do menial work & not necessarily be promised to learn a trade or craft. But surely the idea of a newcomer learning from an old hand is a good one. & it's one that seems beneficial to both - after all, if you have to teach your own work, you learn more about it, like learning a different language helps you examine your own.
Nothing I am saying here is in the least bit profound, & wouldn't be to a blacksmith in 1513. But for an enterprise as fraught with complication as "community radio," it seems like a broadcast station with virtually no paid staff, run on a shoestring budget with virtually every task done by volunteers, it seems like such an entity would want the best possible way - not to mention the cheapest & least onerous - to have brand new participants learn as quickly as possible the ins & outs of not only the mechanism for making radio, but also how the station works. Therefore: an apprenticeship system.
When I came to KOOP in 2000, the training process was perfuctory at best: three consecutive Mondays of "training," a ten question "test," & you were left to do what you needed to do as a volunteer. Most of the people who came to be "trained" left - there was nothing there to encourage your participation in KOOP except your own motivation. & by the way, there was also no reason for you to even hope to get a show, but that's another story.
I stuck it out because I love doing radio, & I'm also creepily stubborn. I became part of KOOP's Training Team & watched as dozens of great people came to KOOP & then left, simply because the station didn't have a process to nurture involvement. Surely that could be changed! Surely there was a good idea out there so we didn't have to invent one!
In 2005, I took part in a process to redefine the training system & the programming policies. You can see those policies here. One part of the policies is that now training takes a little longer than a month. More like six months. & while you're being trained, you are assigned to a current KOOP programmer - as an apprentice - to learn the ropes. You're given something to do as you become involved.
I don't know if KOOP did anything like this in its first ten or so years of existence, but boy, isn't it a good idea?
This is a long-winded way of saying that I have two great appentices this season & I am giving them my show this week. They want to do a show about the weather. Okay! I'll be there to make sure nothing gets broken - you know, except my heart - but it's all them. Ninety minutes of apprentices gone wild. & why not give them the show? How else are they gonna learn how crazily easy it is to do Self Help Radio.
Oh, wait.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Bitten Too Too
The crisis that is this blog continues unto the present day. Are there no more insights from my electronic pen? Do you wish perhaps someone could put your neighborhood in context? Perhaps this can help. I can do more than this.
Or wait. You can always visit the Self Help Radio website to listen to last week's show. If you missed it. Or if you heard it. Especially if you heard it. It's more confusing the second time around.
I am public announcing something on this blog in a month's time. It will not have anything to do with a coupon. Are there other blogs you would like me to emulate? I could perhaps have more found art here. Or maybe flash movies in which you are allowed to do things "creatively" without marking up real paper from real dead trees. You can suggest whatever. I am all years.
New features! A change of cologne! A chance to win twelve dollars a minutes for forty days & forty nights! Styrofoam! Something that reminds you of something else! Redesign! Remix! Repackage! Reticence! All coming up on the new, improved Self Help Radio Blog!
Or, wait, maybe not. I've been a little tired. Also, I'm going to Dallas tomorrow & where will I get a computer then? Are you still counting my keystrokes? What a weirdo.
Or wait. You can always visit the Self Help Radio website to listen to last week's show. If you missed it. Or if you heard it. Especially if you heard it. It's more confusing the second time around.
I am public announcing something on this blog in a month's time. It will not have anything to do with a coupon. Are there other blogs you would like me to emulate? I could perhaps have more found art here. Or maybe flash movies in which you are allowed to do things "creatively" without marking up real paper from real dead trees. You can suggest whatever. I am all years.
New features! A change of cologne! A chance to win twelve dollars a minutes for forty days & forty nights! Styrofoam! Something that reminds you of something else! Redesign! Remix! Repackage! Reticence! All coming up on the new, improved Self Help Radio Blog!
Or, wait, maybe not. I've been a little tired. Also, I'm going to Dallas tomorrow & where will I get a computer then? Are you still counting my keystrokes? What a weirdo.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Best If We Don't Stand Up
Did you know? The Lucksmiths are in town tonight. It's a happy occasion, & far too rare!
& the KOOP Membership Drive continues apace. According to our website, we're at 36,000 - which means we're very close. Pledging during my show will not only give me happy shivers, but will also help the station end the drive early. So you can get back to your regularly scheduled listening. Oh boy!
We adopted a new child last week, as I detailed here, & he has already decided he doesn't respect my authority. He loves running around like an idiot, though, which makes him one of the family.
I'm not feeling terribly clever right now, but my show will be cleverly delicious tomorrow. Maybe I'll even find something nice to say here.
Instead, you can read a great column by Sam Harris. I love him.
& the KOOP Membership Drive continues apace. According to our website, we're at 36,000 - which means we're very close. Pledging during my show will not only give me happy shivers, but will also help the station end the drive early. So you can get back to your regularly scheduled listening. Oh boy!
We adopted a new child last week, as I detailed here, & he has already decided he doesn't respect my authority. He loves running around like an idiot, though, which makes him one of the family.
I'm not feeling terribly clever right now, but my show will be cleverly delicious tomorrow. Maybe I'll even find something nice to say here.
Instead, you can read a great column by Sam Harris. I love him.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Whither Marc Bolan & T Rex?
I love Marc Bolan. I love that he's born to boogie. I love his hippy-dippy shit & I love his crazy rock & roll songs. It's the essence of rock & roll to me. Idiosyncratic, sexy, danceable, singable, swingable. I love him so much I named one of my cats Bolan.
He died thirty years ago, killed in a car, & we lost a lot. "Life's a gas," he sang, "I hope it lasts." It doesn't, but how rare that someone can give as much to the world as Marc Bolan!
So I am celebrating him. It's also KOOP's Membership Drive. You know. Give us money. But even if you don't, know that this unbeliever is sharing something with you that's as sacred as it gets.
He died thirty years ago, killed in a car, & we lost a lot. "Life's a gas," he sang, "I hope it lasts." It doesn't, but how rare that someone can give as much to the world as Marc Bolan!
So I am celebrating him. It's also KOOP's Membership Drive. You know. Give us money. But even if you don't, know that this unbeliever is sharing something with you that's as sacred as it gets.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Preface To The Marc Bolan/T Rex Tribute: Crystals In The Urine?!?!
This is a strange & lovely collection of found photos of one woman.
I had a best friend in first grade but though he & I continued for ten more years of school together, we weren't as close as at the first. He disappeared I think around ninth grade, but we were barely more than acquaintances by then. Strangely enough, as in a weird Dickens' chapter, I ran into him in my third year of college. We became friends again, probably better friends than even first grade.
He lived in a big Austin house (rented) with squeaky hardwood floors & high ceilings, with two or three other dudes. One of them was a very big fellow who wouldn't have been out of place as the scary fat guy at a frat party, who told me once that, if you have have sex by rubbing your penis between a woman's breasts, it's called "the Hawaiian muscle fuck." (It looks like the Urban Dictionary agrees with him.) His other roommate was a skinny dude with a comical face who had apparently been to England once so he spoke with a fakey British accent & used obscure British words like "woofter" & "dosh." I don't remember either of their names.
What I do remember is the anglophile had a T Rex tape which had "Jeepster" on it (& since I liked Bowie, I already owned Electric Warrior), but also tons of other stuff that sounded nothing like the T Rex Bang A Gong rocker I knew. Later I'd find this stuff was by "Tyrranosaurus Rex," but it charmed me immensely. I stole the tape. I needed a reference point for what I'd be looking for. Anglophile suspected but had no proof.
That's when I fell in love with Marc Bolan, that tape, with songs about wizards & cats & child stars & abyssinia & apple girls & finding a little wood & having a little sleep. The tape's gone, & I haven't thought about my friend's roommates in many years. My friend is happily married with two kids.
I'm not sorry I stole the tape, though. I am sorry I lied to my friend about stealing the tape. I wonder if he even likes T Rex?
I had a best friend in first grade but though he & I continued for ten more years of school together, we weren't as close as at the first. He disappeared I think around ninth grade, but we were barely more than acquaintances by then. Strangely enough, as in a weird Dickens' chapter, I ran into him in my third year of college. We became friends again, probably better friends than even first grade.
He lived in a big Austin house (rented) with squeaky hardwood floors & high ceilings, with two or three other dudes. One of them was a very big fellow who wouldn't have been out of place as the scary fat guy at a frat party, who told me once that, if you have have sex by rubbing your penis between a woman's breasts, it's called "the Hawaiian muscle fuck." (It looks like the Urban Dictionary agrees with him.) His other roommate was a skinny dude with a comical face who had apparently been to England once so he spoke with a fakey British accent & used obscure British words like "woofter" & "dosh." I don't remember either of their names.
What I do remember is the anglophile had a T Rex tape which had "Jeepster" on it (& since I liked Bowie, I already owned Electric Warrior), but also tons of other stuff that sounded nothing like the T Rex Bang A Gong rocker I knew. Later I'd find this stuff was by "Tyrranosaurus Rex," but it charmed me immensely. I stole the tape. I needed a reference point for what I'd be looking for. Anglophile suspected but had no proof.
That's when I fell in love with Marc Bolan, that tape, with songs about wizards & cats & child stars & abyssinia & apple girls & finding a little wood & having a little sleep. The tape's gone, & I haven't thought about my friend's roommates in many years. My friend is happily married with two kids.
I'm not sorry I stole the tape, though. I am sorry I lied to my friend about stealing the tape. I wonder if he even likes T Rex?
Monday, October 01, 2007
If I Wore A Weapon Like My Dear Old Dad
What did he wear? You mean, under the apron?
I am very sleepy because of the new life in our house, whose name is Winston, & who looks like this:
He's only three months old. He likes to play.
If you like to play old Self Help Radio shows, you may listen to last Friday's show over at selfhelpradio.net. Remember, KOOP is still having a pledge drive, so there'll be some beggin' within. I hope it makes you give my favorite radio station lots of money!.
I'm sorry I dozed off. I am sleepy. But if I wore a weapon, like my dear old dad...
I am very sleepy because of the new life in our house, whose name is Winston, & who looks like this:
He's only three months old. He likes to play.
If you like to play old Self Help Radio shows, you may listen to last Friday's show over at selfhelpradio.net. Remember, KOOP is still having a pledge drive, so there'll be some beggin' within. I hope it makes you give my favorite radio station lots of money!.
I'm sorry I dozed off. I am sleepy. But if I wore a weapon, like my dear old dad...
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Why There's Flossing In This Cruel World
Manservant Ripple finds his way through the echoing, gigantic house. Sentences flow sweetly from his collapsable lungs. The master smiles to himself - he remembers why he hired Manservant Ripple; & it is still a bargain.
In the basement, Manservent Ripple conspires. The beaujolais is eminently flammable. How many more must die for the bloodlust they call capitalism to leave this vale of tears? But his is not to reason why.
In the bedroom, the mistress dreams dream of Manservant Ripple. She is ashamed of her sad lust, but she has always wanted to touch a hunchback's hump. She cries tears of perserverance.
Did you know he was married? asks the farmer. Yes, his wife lives in the hovel on the corner, next to the hovel once owned by Orson Welles, it's true. She doesn't work, no. She's a shut-in.
But is there - be honest! - is there a difference between mental illness & a love of the fine arts? A difference between a political solution to a problem & the eating of uncooked flesh? Between religion & mockery?
How he wishes he could have wounded with words, does Manservant Ripple. His wife stares at the hovel next door greedily. If they lived anywhere near the mansion, they might see the fire yet rage. But they do not.
Manservant Ripple will apply now for another job.
In the basement, Manservent Ripple conspires. The beaujolais is eminently flammable. How many more must die for the bloodlust they call capitalism to leave this vale of tears? But his is not to reason why.
In the bedroom, the mistress dreams dream of Manservant Ripple. She is ashamed of her sad lust, but she has always wanted to touch a hunchback's hump. She cries tears of perserverance.
Did you know he was married? asks the farmer. Yes, his wife lives in the hovel on the corner, next to the hovel once owned by Orson Welles, it's true. She doesn't work, no. She's a shut-in.
But is there - be honest! - is there a difference between mental illness & a love of the fine arts? A difference between a political solution to a problem & the eating of uncooked flesh? Between religion & mockery?
How he wishes he could have wounded with words, does Manservant Ripple. His wife stares at the hovel next door greedily. If they lived anywhere near the mansion, they might see the fire yet rage. But they do not.
Manservant Ripple will apply now for another job.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Whither A Tribute To Tony Wilson?
One of the students I supervise at work asked me one day how I discovered so much music in my life. She correctly observed that commercial radio is repetitive, predictable & dull, & her main response was to keep listening to the same crap she's always been listening to (which seems to be mainly "classic rock"). I thought about it & told her that there are four main ways I set about discovering music (not including listening to some kind of radio, which of course is always a crap shoot &, the older you get, the less reliable unless you find a program you really really dig):
1) Find an artist you like. Find artists he/she/they have worked with, & look for their solo/other stuff.
2) With your artist as a reference, find musicians who have emulated or are otherwise influenced by the artist you like.
3) If it's a scene, start at the epicenter & work outward.
4) Look at other music on the label that the artist you like is on.
Number 4 isn't always a good strategy (Sire Records in the 80's come immediately to mind), but there are labels, then & now, whose output for the most part is controlled by & chosen by someone with really, really good taste. The Beatles had a pretty mundane taste in music, as the other artists on Apple Records showed; but Tony Wilson, one of the founders of Factory Records, obviously knew his shit.
He was there for three main trends in British independent rock: the postpunk of Joy Division, the dance-pop of New Order, & the Madchester sound of Happy Mondays. & certainly all three sounds continue to reverberate & influence music today & will doubtless do so for the rest of our lives. I wish I could say that decisions I made about musicians had such deep & lasting effects in the world of recorded sound.
Tony Wilson's death this year at 57 from cancer was a sadness. I want to celebrate his life on Self Help Radio this Friday. I'll do it by playing a sample of the music he chose to promote & share with the world.
1) Find an artist you like. Find artists he/she/they have worked with, & look for their solo/other stuff.
2) With your artist as a reference, find musicians who have emulated or are otherwise influenced by the artist you like.
3) If it's a scene, start at the epicenter & work outward.
4) Look at other music on the label that the artist you like is on.
Number 4 isn't always a good strategy (Sire Records in the 80's come immediately to mind), but there are labels, then & now, whose output for the most part is controlled by & chosen by someone with really, really good taste. The Beatles had a pretty mundane taste in music, as the other artists on Apple Records showed; but Tony Wilson, one of the founders of Factory Records, obviously knew his shit.
He was there for three main trends in British independent rock: the postpunk of Joy Division, the dance-pop of New Order, & the Madchester sound of Happy Mondays. & certainly all three sounds continue to reverberate & influence music today & will doubtless do so for the rest of our lives. I wish I could say that decisions I made about musicians had such deep & lasting effects in the world of recorded sound.
Tony Wilson's death this year at 57 from cancer was a sadness. I want to celebrate his life on Self Help Radio this Friday. I'll do it by playing a sample of the music he chose to promote & share with the world.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Preface To The Tony Wilson/Factory Records Tribute: It's So Fun Up Here At The Death Camp
Two people have played Tony Wilson in a movie - Steve Coogan in "24 Party People" & Craig Parkinson in "Control" - & that doesn't count movies that Tony Wilson himself was in. You can see that here. Not that it means anything. Just sayin'.
I know he didn't start Factory Records all on his own, but he seems most visible & his recent, tragic demise (he wasn't even 58 years old) seems to say it's time to play lots of great music from his old record label.
He possesses one of those names (you know, the ones with four syllables) in which I can sing a made-up stanza to the tune of "Frere Jacques." I do this with my animals all the time. When you read this, though, you can pretend I am singing in tune:
Tony Wilson, Tony Wilson,
We miss you, we miss you
At the hacienda, at the hacienda
Boo hoo hoo, boo hoo hoo.
I could do that shit all night long. Provided you have a four syllable name. I myself (Ga-ry Dick-er-son) & especially my girlfriend (Mag-da Much-lin-ski) are out. My animals, though, survive by a combination trick:
George & Ringo, George & Ringo
You smell bad, you smell bad
Don't be eating dog poop, don't be eating dog poop
Like your dad, like your dad.
In heaven, you know, they don't allow this sort of doggerel. So we must make use of it here.
I know he didn't start Factory Records all on his own, but he seems most visible & his recent, tragic demise (he wasn't even 58 years old) seems to say it's time to play lots of great music from his old record label.
He possesses one of those names (you know, the ones with four syllables) in which I can sing a made-up stanza to the tune of "Frere Jacques." I do this with my animals all the time. When you read this, though, you can pretend I am singing in tune:
Tony Wilson, Tony Wilson,
We miss you, we miss you
At the hacienda, at the hacienda
Boo hoo hoo, boo hoo hoo.
I could do that shit all night long. Provided you have a four syllable name. I myself (Ga-ry Dick-er-son) & especially my girlfriend (Mag-da Much-lin-ski) are out. My animals, though, survive by a combination trick:
George & Ringo, George & Ringo
You smell bad, you smell bad
Don't be eating dog poop, don't be eating dog poop
Like your dad, like your dad.
In heaven, you know, they don't allow this sort of doggerel. So we must make use of it here.
Monday, September 24, 2007
My Fascination With Poorly-Written Spam Is Terrifying Me
I love reading spam. I love when my computer tells me "The Website You Are About To Visit May Be Deceptive. Continue?" It's almost like it's calling me a pussy. Google does the same thing with the "This Website May Harm Your Computer" tag on some searches. It may as well just add, "Little Girl."
I hope you're supporting KOOP Radio during our Fall 2007 Membership Drive. I know I am. I doing the best damn radio show I know how.
Want proof? Listen to last Friday's show. It was a tribute to the late, great Syd Barrett. I was forced to drink half a bottle of whiskey afterwards. It was simply that good.
I have nothing else to say. But I do have three potential spam messages to read. This bodes ill, however - one of them appears to be from my mother. & she can certainly harm my computer.
I hope you're supporting KOOP Radio during our Fall 2007 Membership Drive. I know I am. I doing the best damn radio show I know how.
Want proof? Listen to last Friday's show. It was a tribute to the late, great Syd Barrett. I was forced to drink half a bottle of whiskey afterwards. It was simply that good.
I have nothing else to say. But I do have three potential spam messages to read. This bodes ill, however - one of them appears to be from my mother. & she can certainly harm my computer.
Friday, September 21, 2007
My Llama Is So Llovely!
TODAY on Self Help Radio: Syd Barrett's musical masterpieces intrepreted by the ne'er-do-wells he influenced. Just so you can see his light shining through their work.
IT'S ALSO the first day of KOOP's Fall Membership Drive. I suggest you give all you can to the best radio station in Austin. Otherwise, what good are you?
I SHOULD ALSO MENTION I'll be a guest at the Coldtowne Theater's Stool Pigeon Improv Comedy Show tomorrow night (September 22) at 8pm. I'd love for you to come out & watch me be very nervous & ridiculous in front of you.
I DON'T KNOW WHY I keep capitalizing the beginnings of these sentences, but it does seem to make it more formal. Like every paragraph is the first paragraph of a book or something.
But it doesn't work the same way when you capitalize the last WORDS OF A SENTENCE.
It kinda makes you feel like you're being yelled at or somehow condescended to. That's icky.
BUT IF IT HAPPENS TO THE LAST SENTENCE, IT COMES ACROSS AS FINAL, LIKE IT'S A MORAL OR SOMETHING.
IT'S ALSO the first day of KOOP's Fall Membership Drive. I suggest you give all you can to the best radio station in Austin. Otherwise, what good are you?
I SHOULD ALSO MENTION I'll be a guest at the Coldtowne Theater's Stool Pigeon Improv Comedy Show tomorrow night (September 22) at 8pm. I'd love for you to come out & watch me be very nervous & ridiculous in front of you.
I DON'T KNOW WHY I keep capitalizing the beginnings of these sentences, but it does seem to make it more formal. Like every paragraph is the first paragraph of a book or something.
But it doesn't work the same way when you capitalize the last WORDS OF A SENTENCE.
It kinda makes you feel like you're being yelled at or somehow condescended to. That's icky.
BUT IF IT HAPPENS TO THE LAST SENTENCE, IT COMES ACROSS AS FINAL, LIKE IT'S A MORAL OR SOMETHING.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
I Dreamed I Saw Syd Barrett Last Night
He was eating ice cream, & was quite old. He seemed a little alarmed when he noticed I was looking at him. I'm pretty sure it was in Manchester, & not in Cambridge, where he seems to have lived most of his life, but I'm sure I was remembering a place from the most recent "Prime Suspect." I told my girlfriend, who was well in the dream but sick in real life, I said, "That's Syd Barrett." She wanted to go up to him & thank him for writing "The Gnome," but I told her he looked uncomfortable, so she waved & smiled & we turned to go. He waved back, to Magda, not to me, but did not smile.
The dream turned into a kind of scary adventure as I raced bicycles on the highway, but I wasn't on a bicycle, I was swimming through the asphalt, kind of kicking it to make myself go.
That has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, though, but I think you're sweet to have read this far.
The dream turned into a kind of scary adventure as I raced bicycles on the highway, but I wasn't on a bicycle, I was swimming through the asphalt, kind of kicking it to make myself go.
That has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, though, but I think you're sweet to have read this far.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Whither Syd Barrett?
The truth is, I don't really care much for Pink Floyd. (I know, even typing this blasphemy has caused waves of consternation to fly through college dorms rooms all over the world.) I knew about Syd Barrett before I knew exactly what his contribution to Pink Floyd was - his name was much, much more powerful in the musical circles I was investigating than the name "Pink Floyd" was. (I kinda wish the same was true with John Lennon's name. He's so much more than a "Beatle.")
Years after I had "The Madcap Laughs" & "Opel," some friends made me listen to "Piper At The Gates Of Dawn." I confess I wasn't as charmed as I should have been. "See Emily Play," "Vegetable Man," "Arnold Layne" - those songs were much better (on first listen) than the stuff on the record. I figured it had something to do the bad influence of the rest of the band (as if they didn't play on the singles!). It took a while for me to warm up to that disc.
More than anything, though, I was impressed by the folks who were influenced by Syd Barrett - Dan Treacy, Robyn Hitchcock, Martin Newell - people whose work seemed to begin at the very moment they heard a Syd Barrett song. How could I not eventually embrace the (almost literally) crazy genius whose ideas became dreams for some many musicians I loved?
I was going to do a Syd Barrett tribute show last year (he died, you know, in July 2006) but other things intruded - & since it's been a year, & since it'll be a Membership Drive show, it can be as special as I want it to be.
More about Syd is located here. I don't know if one should feel sad about his life - I think he understood how much he meant to everyone, at least vaguely so. Instead, we should celebrate the explosive, endless creativity he unleashed into the world. I, for one, will do it on Friday.
Years after I had "The Madcap Laughs" & "Opel," some friends made me listen to "Piper At The Gates Of Dawn." I confess I wasn't as charmed as I should have been. "See Emily Play," "Vegetable Man," "Arnold Layne" - those songs were much better (on first listen) than the stuff on the record. I figured it had something to do the bad influence of the rest of the band (as if they didn't play on the singles!). It took a while for me to warm up to that disc.
More than anything, though, I was impressed by the folks who were influenced by Syd Barrett - Dan Treacy, Robyn Hitchcock, Martin Newell - people whose work seemed to begin at the very moment they heard a Syd Barrett song. How could I not eventually embrace the (almost literally) crazy genius whose ideas became dreams for some many musicians I loved?
I was going to do a Syd Barrett tribute show last year (he died, you know, in July 2006) but other things intruded - & since it's been a year, & since it'll be a Membership Drive show, it can be as special as I want it to be.
More about Syd is located here. I don't know if one should feel sad about his life - I think he understood how much he meant to everyone, at least vaguely so. Instead, we should celebrate the explosive, endless creativity he unleashed into the world. I, for one, will do it on Friday.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Preface To The Syd Barrett Tribute: When To Use Wondercum?
I just got some spam in my gmail account & the email was titled "When To Use Wondercum?" I am not a Darren Stevens type so I don't pretend to know how to sell stuff to the people (although I'd totally marry a witch if I could & not be a total dillweed about it), but doesn't "Wondercum" sound like, well, super special ejaculate, & not a product that would perhaps increase your yield when you have an orgasm?
That seems like an unfortunate marketing decision. Perhaps they are getting advice from the Nigerian spammers, who don't seem to know I am unbeliever, since they write me, ask me for my bank account information, & talk a lot about God with me.
Another question is this: "Wondercum," assuming it's the latter explanation - something that makes a gentleman who's in the final stages of the sexual excitement process produce a lot more semen than his regular paltry load - is that something that's a real problem in the bedrooms of America? Maybe in the porn business, but in my experience, which is probably not terribly substantial, I've never had a partner say to me, "Is that ALL the sperm you're going to produce tonight? Where do you keep the Wondercum!"
This has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, whose life & music I'll be celebrating this week on the very first Fall 2007 Membership Drive Show, & who never had a single problem with the ladies. At least not before 1971.
That seems like an unfortunate marketing decision. Perhaps they are getting advice from the Nigerian spammers, who don't seem to know I am unbeliever, since they write me, ask me for my bank account information, & talk a lot about God with me.
Another question is this: "Wondercum," assuming it's the latter explanation - something that makes a gentleman who's in the final stages of the sexual excitement process produce a lot more semen than his regular paltry load - is that something that's a real problem in the bedrooms of America? Maybe in the porn business, but in my experience, which is probably not terribly substantial, I've never had a partner say to me, "Is that ALL the sperm you're going to produce tonight? Where do you keep the Wondercum!"
This has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, whose life & music I'll be celebrating this week on the very first Fall 2007 Membership Drive Show, & who never had a single problem with the ladies. At least not before 1971.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Your Big Tears Do Not Scare Me
Sailor! You've never loved like this before! Did we last meet at the Emmys?
Are you hoping that we'll have a fine romance like the first time ever? This could perhaps be true, if you're willing to listen to these three things I am wishing to be telling you:
1) There was once upon a time a radio show in which the host & two "guest-like" personages expounded upon listening. To listen, you really must just go to a web page called Self Help Radio Dot Net. It is perhaps easier than most, but more noisy than some. The show would be the show which originally aired September 14, 2007. It is called "Listening."
2) Your tastes may be more refined, like crude oil which isn't yet so crude. There are other radio shows at Self Help Radio Dot Net, one of which is brand new, as the original aired only just yesterday. It was a show called "Jamaican Gold" & it featured an imaginary Gary thought of "What reggae music were the punks of 1977-1979 listening to?" So I played some lovely roots reggae & dub & stuff. Yes, it's also available at Self Help Radio Dot Net.
3) If you live in the Austin area & would like to see Self Help Gary (as the host of this show calls himself & his self), he (which is me, so I don't know why I am talking about myself in the third person) (I mean, I'm not a professional athlete) I will be the "stool pigeon" for this event happening at the Coldtowne Theater this Saturday. It may be worthwhile to see me be so publicly humiliated. I will talk more about this (how could I not?) in the near future.
Go now! Listen to radio shows! See if I care!
Are you hoping that we'll have a fine romance like the first time ever? This could perhaps be true, if you're willing to listen to these three things I am wishing to be telling you:
1) There was once upon a time a radio show in which the host & two "guest-like" personages expounded upon listening. To listen, you really must just go to a web page called Self Help Radio Dot Net. It is perhaps easier than most, but more noisy than some. The show would be the show which originally aired September 14, 2007. It is called "Listening."
2) Your tastes may be more refined, like crude oil which isn't yet so crude. There are other radio shows at Self Help Radio Dot Net, one of which is brand new, as the original aired only just yesterday. It was a show called "Jamaican Gold" & it featured an imaginary Gary thought of "What reggae music were the punks of 1977-1979 listening to?" So I played some lovely roots reggae & dub & stuff. Yes, it's also available at Self Help Radio Dot Net.
3) If you live in the Austin area & would like to see Self Help Gary (as the host of this show calls himself & his self), he (which is me, so I don't know why I am talking about myself in the third person) (I mean, I'm not a professional athlete) I will be the "stool pigeon" for this event happening at the Coldtowne Theater this Saturday. It may be worthwhile to see me be so publicly humiliated. I will talk more about this (how could I not?) in the near future.
Go now! Listen to radio shows! See if I care!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Tensions High! Start A Fire!
Hello, diligent workers. Do not be alarmed. This is not a drill. Arms outstretched, make sure you have a widow's space between you. I won't imagine you're talking today.
We called everyone in the factory floor to discuss hand-holding & other deviance within the ranks. Surely this must be opposed. What would your guardian angel think? I believe we hold each other responsible in this manner.
Further, the management would like to interest everyone. This is not nearly as energetic as one might suppose. As an example, let us bring out our top of the line. You see? Everyone here had a hand or foot in that.
As the morning turns to day, assuredly does the bone turn to fossil. We live ever so quirkily on a shifting conveyor belt of duty & responsibility. The alcohol takes what the Lord gives away. You know this.
Why then complicate the abject with the objectification of your fellow worker? Must we make stuffy government write the rules for us? They already have your dental records & your pet's DNA.
As management's eyes in the showroom & the restroom, we only want to stress what we have received on company letterhead: do not make us come down there & scold you. Let go of each other & hold hands with work!
You may take a few breaths before you return to your assigned tasks. We will not speak of this again. Tissues are being handed out by your supervisors. I think I got something in my eye. Excuse me.
We called everyone in the factory floor to discuss hand-holding & other deviance within the ranks. Surely this must be opposed. What would your guardian angel think? I believe we hold each other responsible in this manner.
Further, the management would like to interest everyone. This is not nearly as energetic as one might suppose. As an example, let us bring out our top of the line. You see? Everyone here had a hand or foot in that.
As the morning turns to day, assuredly does the bone turn to fossil. We live ever so quirkily on a shifting conveyor belt of duty & responsibility. The alcohol takes what the Lord gives away. You know this.
Why then complicate the abject with the objectification of your fellow worker? Must we make stuffy government write the rules for us? They already have your dental records & your pet's DNA.
As management's eyes in the showroom & the restroom, we only want to stress what we have received on company letterhead: do not make us come down there & scold you. Let go of each other & hold hands with work!
You may take a few breaths before you return to your assigned tasks. We will not speak of this again. Tissues are being handed out by your supervisors. I think I got something in my eye. Excuse me.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Whither Listening?
In the land of the ears, the headphoned are sad. Ears were not born with headphones, but some have found them. Unable to control content or volume, these ears despair, & wish & hope for someone to help release them from the headphone bondage.
In the land of the eyes, there are some who never blink. "Dry-Eyes" they are called, but they do see everything. They see the sadness of the headphoned ears. They would tell the others, but the others communicate with blinks. & the Dry-Eyes never blink.
In the land of the noses, something smells strange. It's not a familiar smell - the noses love all the regular smells, from the sweet to the sour - this is a bad kind of strange smell. They lift their nostrils & wonder - is it coming from the land of the ears?
In the land of the mouths, there is singing, talking, eating, brushing of teeth. They don't notice anything. They never stop moving.
& in the land of the hands, the scene is touching. The hands care. The hand feel their way around, gently brushing fingers past mouths, noses, eyes, even the ears. The ears feel strange! The hands gingerly lift the headphones off the ears. The ears are free!
When the ears gratefully gather around the hands that rescued them, the hands - if only for an instant - can hear. The curious nostrils find their way to the curious celebration, as do the Dry-Eyes. The jumble is a party & as they congregate, the nostrils can see & the ears can smell & eyes can feel & of course the hands can hear.
& all of them think, in their freedom & joy, "Holy mother of fuck, don't those mouths ever shut the hell up?"
In the land of the eyes, there are some who never blink. "Dry-Eyes" they are called, but they do see everything. They see the sadness of the headphoned ears. They would tell the others, but the others communicate with blinks. & the Dry-Eyes never blink.
In the land of the noses, something smells strange. It's not a familiar smell - the noses love all the regular smells, from the sweet to the sour - this is a bad kind of strange smell. They lift their nostrils & wonder - is it coming from the land of the ears?
In the land of the mouths, there is singing, talking, eating, brushing of teeth. They don't notice anything. They never stop moving.
& in the land of the hands, the scene is touching. The hands care. The hand feel their way around, gently brushing fingers past mouths, noses, eyes, even the ears. The ears feel strange! The hands gingerly lift the headphones off the ears. The ears are free!
When the ears gratefully gather around the hands that rescued them, the hands - if only for an instant - can hear. The curious nostrils find their way to the curious celebration, as do the Dry-Eyes. The jumble is a party & as they congregate, the nostrils can see & the ears can smell & eyes can feel & of course the hands can hear.
& all of them think, in their freedom & joy, "Holy mother of fuck, don't those mouths ever shut the hell up?"
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Preface To Listening: What About The Other Four Senses? Not "Radio Friendly"?
This is coming to Austin: the Austin Booger City Booger Limits Festival Booger. Except for maybe the Decemberists, whom I've seen live, & the National, whom I'd like to see at a smaller venue, I have zero interest in the band coming to this. I have actually zero interest in the event itself. I have only been to one or two "festivals" in my life, &, except for the fact that nice people gave me nice drugs there without really knowing me, it was hot, noisy, boring, & smelled like a toilet more often than not. So what's the draw?
I have a theory.
Life on the lonesome prairie was kind of lonesome, what with the prairie being big & wide & expansive, & also not a lot of people around, unless you count prairie dogs as people (& remember, dogs don't count prairie dogs as dogs), & so when there was a house fire, or a quilting bee, or a lynching, or a bible-beat-off, or some other community event, it was worth the seventeen day journey to the nearest town to just hang out. You might could even to get a bath.
All human societies, you will recall from our earlier lessons, began on the lonesome prairie. Except for the mountain folk who dwell beyond the night. But then they never make it to music festivals, so fuck them.
Years have passed, & the drugs have become more illegal, but even so, we live in the lonesome prairie of our own lives. Since we haven't yet discovered how to share our thoughts (or even, really, how to throw our voices), we are trapped evolutionarily on the lonesome prairily, & music festivals, even if they have to bring Bob Dylan back from the dead, remind us of those times.
Also, we're kind of snobbish fucks & we're envious of everything, so most certainly a town full of moronic hipsters will be ejaculating all over themselves for months for having "seen" so many "big names" at one time. It's as easy as Cheney hunting quail for them. It doesn't require any real work on their part, but now they can say, "Oh, sure, I've seen BLEH." I'm sure some of them might even get to have some superstar snort cocaine out of their ass. Those people are COOL.
But I still can't see the draw, so please, you can come to my slightly bloated city & make use of our facilities, but remember: you're really just a forlorn settler who's spent the majority of your life in a badly-built cabin in the middle of nowhere, scared most of the time about hurtful enemies & monstrous beasties, & all that the City Booger Austin Booger Limits Booger Festival is to you a chance to get away from the lonesome prairie which is your soul. You poor fucker.
What a theory! Just by writing it I got accepted into graduate school! Thanks boring trendoids! I hope to milk your pathetic posturing & grubby grasping into irrelevant pop culture paperbacks that you'll unironically embrace! Hooray!
I have a theory.
Life on the lonesome prairie was kind of lonesome, what with the prairie being big & wide & expansive, & also not a lot of people around, unless you count prairie dogs as people (& remember, dogs don't count prairie dogs as dogs), & so when there was a house fire, or a quilting bee, or a lynching, or a bible-beat-off, or some other community event, it was worth the seventeen day journey to the nearest town to just hang out. You might could even to get a bath.
All human societies, you will recall from our earlier lessons, began on the lonesome prairie. Except for the mountain folk who dwell beyond the night. But then they never make it to music festivals, so fuck them.
Years have passed, & the drugs have become more illegal, but even so, we live in the lonesome prairie of our own lives. Since we haven't yet discovered how to share our thoughts (or even, really, how to throw our voices), we are trapped evolutionarily on the lonesome prairily, & music festivals, even if they have to bring Bob Dylan back from the dead, remind us of those times.
Also, we're kind of snobbish fucks & we're envious of everything, so most certainly a town full of moronic hipsters will be ejaculating all over themselves for months for having "seen" so many "big names" at one time. It's as easy as Cheney hunting quail for them. It doesn't require any real work on their part, but now they can say, "Oh, sure, I've seen BLEH." I'm sure some of them might even get to have some superstar snort cocaine out of their ass. Those people are COOL.
But I still can't see the draw, so please, you can come to my slightly bloated city & make use of our facilities, but remember: you're really just a forlorn settler who's spent the majority of your life in a badly-built cabin in the middle of nowhere, scared most of the time about hurtful enemies & monstrous beasties, & all that the City Booger Austin Booger Limits Booger Festival is to you a chance to get away from the lonesome prairie which is your soul. You poor fucker.
What a theory! Just by writing it I got accepted into graduate school! Thanks boring trendoids! I hope to milk your pathetic posturing & grubby grasping into irrelevant pop culture paperbacks that you'll unironically embrace! Hooray!
Monday, September 10, 2007
My Brain Has Its Own Holes
In 1388, on the coast of France, then called Germany, three Pristinian Monks wearing dog collars & x-ray spex decided they no longer believed in a "catholic" god. They wanted laughter, fun, adventure, ha cha cha cha! & they certainly the fuck weren't going to get it in 14th century Germany.
They wrote a book, which they called "the Bible" - they wanted to piss people off - they were, in fact, the first performance artists - which to this day smells a lot like stale beer. The three monks outlined a festive way of living which can be enjoyed with only a minimal of fuss &, with aspirin, only a smallish hangover.
That philosophy became unpopular when priests with scary weapons killed the three monks, but it has experienced a resurgence today among born-again villains & crazy hippie children. Though no one outside the inner circle has seen "the Bible," leaked pages have been recovered, only to be thrown down in disgust when people realize they're called "leaked pages" because someone took a leak on them. So far no one has been eager to see the pages which are claimed to have be "wiped out."
This has nothing, however, to do with Self Help Radio, the radio show which, rather than spend a long time researching a topic & sharing deep, important knowledge on the air, took the easy way out last week, & totally faked a show about fakery. & no one was fooled!
Don't believe me? Listen for yourself at selfhelpradio.net. The entire show is there & shall be for a while, so please use it in whatever lawsuit you're currently involved with. Standard super saver shipping restrictions apply.
The story of the monks, by the way, is NOT a fake. It's a lie. Tell me what the difference is.
They wrote a book, which they called "the Bible" - they wanted to piss people off - they were, in fact, the first performance artists - which to this day smells a lot like stale beer. The three monks outlined a festive way of living which can be enjoyed with only a minimal of fuss &, with aspirin, only a smallish hangover.
That philosophy became unpopular when priests with scary weapons killed the three monks, but it has experienced a resurgence today among born-again villains & crazy hippie children. Though no one outside the inner circle has seen "the Bible," leaked pages have been recovered, only to be thrown down in disgust when people realize they're called "leaked pages" because someone took a leak on them. So far no one has been eager to see the pages which are claimed to have be "wiped out."
This has nothing, however, to do with Self Help Radio, the radio show which, rather than spend a long time researching a topic & sharing deep, important knowledge on the air, took the easy way out last week, & totally faked a show about fakery. & no one was fooled!
Don't believe me? Listen for yourself at selfhelpradio.net. The entire show is there & shall be for a while, so please use it in whatever lawsuit you're currently involved with. Standard super saver shipping restrictions apply.
The story of the monks, by the way, is NOT a fake. It's a lie. Tell me what the difference is.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Dioxin For The Future Now!
Self Help Radio will be heard today on the radio. This is an incredibly good bit of luck, as I have spent a large amount of time listening to music in the hopes of playing it for unwitting strangers this very day. But the best bit of luck involves one of my favorite bands. They are a local band but they sound like they're from the future. Not that they sound like some space-rock, Devo-esque, or Star Wars Creature Cantina thing - or even Klingon opera, although this particular one is obviously an influence - this particular band sounds like they're from a magical future where every bit of music you hear is good & radio shows like mine are easy to make because all choices sound wonderful.
The band is called Luxuriator, & although they have told me they're imaginary, there's a realness in how much I really, really like them.
Why do I gush so? Because I have been thinking about a show about fakery - which I'm doing today - & out of the blue, the pink & blue Official Luxuriator Courier Moped left a song on my doorstep. Usually, it's a Flight Of The Conchords song - or maybe prank calls made to Robyn Hitchcock - but no, this time it was a new Luxuriator song! I had to dig out my eight-track - they like to give me songs on eight-track - but dig I did, discovering a song called "Fake=Fake."
Imagine my freaky joy when I realized that a theme I was working on had coincided with a song written by the best band in Austin! I was convinced they had broken into my house, so I changed the locks, drugged the cats & dusted the house for prints. (I found a really nice print of Van Gogh's Hairlips that I thought my girlfriend had thrown away.)
Now, of course, the show is coming, & I just wanted to say, "Hey! You might could hear it on their myspace page, but Self Help Radio is proud to play Luxuriator today!" I am pretty damn excited! You must be too!
That's today during Self Help Radio's idiotic examination of "fakery" from 4:30 to 6:00 pm CST on 91.7 fm KOOP, live on the web at koop.org & available archived over the weekend on selfhelpradio.net. If you miss it, you might be unable to digest beans for a week.
The band is called Luxuriator, & although they have told me they're imaginary, there's a realness in how much I really, really like them.
Why do I gush so? Because I have been thinking about a show about fakery - which I'm doing today - & out of the blue, the pink & blue Official Luxuriator Courier Moped left a song on my doorstep. Usually, it's a Flight Of The Conchords song - or maybe prank calls made to Robyn Hitchcock - but no, this time it was a new Luxuriator song! I had to dig out my eight-track - they like to give me songs on eight-track - but dig I did, discovering a song called "Fake=Fake."
Imagine my freaky joy when I realized that a theme I was working on had coincided with a song written by the best band in Austin! I was convinced they had broken into my house, so I changed the locks, drugged the cats & dusted the house for prints. (I found a really nice print of Van Gogh's Hairlips that I thought my girlfriend had thrown away.)
Now, of course, the show is coming, & I just wanted to say, "Hey! You might could hear it on their myspace page, but Self Help Radio is proud to play Luxuriator today!" I am pretty damn excited! You must be too!
That's today during Self Help Radio's idiotic examination of "fakery" from 4:30 to 6:00 pm CST on 91.7 fm KOOP, live on the web at koop.org & available archived over the weekend on selfhelpradio.net. If you miss it, you might be unable to digest beans for a week.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Why Not Spend Some Time In Your Own Thinking?
Good day. As propmaster for the "Self Help Radio," it behooves us all for gradually requesting the compensation required to adequately instill in the listener &/or reactor of quality audiophonic experience what we in the business call "understanding." There are, to avoid the constant activation of self-defeating jargon, what experts call "ten important steps" in a contrary assimiliation process for the betterment of a "Self Help Radio" as well as a "listener modification process." They would be, in order of numerical:
1) Condescension. Surely in what many would call a turbulent egotistic existence you must facilitate your own deference up to but not necessarily including hubris. We require this of any guest who may find him or herself within the confines of normal &/or common sensical entertainment adventures.
2) Carriage, or what the ancients called "mien." What's mien mean? It doesn't imply anything mean - in many ways, the average consumptive of the "Self Help Radio" merely gratifies the hitherto in what can only be described as a antithetical manner.
3) Craft. From a purely simplistic standpoint, aesthetic implies action, whereas passivity implies traction. For the engaged reporter of the "Self Help Radio" an appreciation of source & formatting is otherwise obligatory.
4) Cash. In case you want a snack or something.
5) Candor. We must not specifically be honest, but a measurable amount of embarrassingly confessional surely peppers the soup in whatsoever nakedness should be displayed to the public's chagrin.
Among these are of course other considerations which we shall not cardinally number for scriptural purposes. These would perhaps best be summarized:
6) Creature Comforts. For an empty house is a lonely house, which cannot specifically be called a home.
7) Celerity. For a show which is timed, one might sometimes feel a need to feed the seed of speed. Technically or counterclockwise.
8) Cursory brevity wit. As it means in the unoriginal Latin.
9) Castigation. Formerly the list specifically hinted at "confession," but a consultant confirmed the corruptness of the current clergical community (then & now), so a non-religious, if not entirely materialistic, form of self-reproach is to be preferred if not entirely designated.
10) Conference Call. Are you free Friday?
As the goalkeeper in the fundamental baseball grid of the "Self Help Radio," I welcome the extraneous & the commentary. I hope we've learned our lesson today & surely tomorrow whoever tunes in will have more of a sense of the gist than those whose reading skills, while languishing, have failed to meet the meagerest of expectations for online survey taking.
Please thank yourself for your participation.
1) Condescension. Surely in what many would call a turbulent egotistic existence you must facilitate your own deference up to but not necessarily including hubris. We require this of any guest who may find him or herself within the confines of normal &/or common sensical entertainment adventures.
2) Carriage, or what the ancients called "mien." What's mien mean? It doesn't imply anything mean - in many ways, the average consumptive of the "Self Help Radio" merely gratifies the hitherto in what can only be described as a antithetical manner.
3) Craft. From a purely simplistic standpoint, aesthetic implies action, whereas passivity implies traction. For the engaged reporter of the "Self Help Radio" an appreciation of source & formatting is otherwise obligatory.
4) Cash. In case you want a snack or something.
5) Candor. We must not specifically be honest, but a measurable amount of embarrassingly confessional surely peppers the soup in whatsoever nakedness should be displayed to the public's chagrin.
Among these are of course other considerations which we shall not cardinally number for scriptural purposes. These would perhaps best be summarized:
6) Creature Comforts. For an empty house is a lonely house, which cannot specifically be called a home.
7) Celerity. For a show which is timed, one might sometimes feel a need to feed the seed of speed. Technically or counterclockwise.
8) Cursory brevity wit. As it means in the unoriginal Latin.
9) Castigation. Formerly the list specifically hinted at "confession," but a consultant confirmed the corruptness of the current clergical community (then & now), so a non-religious, if not entirely materialistic, form of self-reproach is to be preferred if not entirely designated.
10) Conference Call. Are you free Friday?
As the goalkeeper in the fundamental baseball grid of the "Self Help Radio," I welcome the extraneous & the commentary. I hope we've learned our lesson today & surely tomorrow whoever tunes in will have more of a sense of the gist than those whose reading skills, while languishing, have failed to meet the meagerest of expectations for online survey taking.
Please thank yourself for your participation.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Whither Fakery?
A newspaper headline in my gmailbox grabs my attention: "Once ravaged by war, now vacation spots". Do you need any more proof that life is an illusion?
Self Help Radio this week will celebrate & berate the deliberately not real.
I am not entirely sure why. But I am self conscious about it. Stop looking at me. These are my real feelings.
Self Help Radio this week will celebrate & berate the deliberately not real.
I am not entirely sure why. But I am self conscious about it. Stop looking at me. These are my real feelings.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Preface To Fakery: I Am Not Faking Being Sick! I Promise!
But if you are in bed too because the beginning September made you ill, you can enjoy lots of sickening Gary on the radio over at the Self Help Radio archive page. I disturbingly did three extra radio shows this weekend, & it nearly killed me. So you can enjoy a Self Help Radio that's all about the indiepop, an Ear Candy that's also all about the indiepop (plus a song by Burt "Robin" Ward), an episode of This Great White North featuring Canadian postpunk, new wave & punk from thirty years ago, & finally an episode of the House Call all about the demon alcohol that exacerabated my illness. What fun!
Now I must take pills & get some sleep. Please enjoy the radio shows.
Now I must take pills & get some sleep. Please enjoy the radio shows.
Friday, August 31, 2007
An Embarrassment Of Garys
I will be laboring on Labor Day.
TODAY FRIDAY THE 31st I shall be doing my regular Self Help Radio gig. From 4:30 to 6pm. On today's show, I will shoot a man.
TOMORROW SATURDAY THE 1st I shall be sitting in on Ear Candy, playing indiepop in a totally not gay way. Saturday from 5 to 7pm. On tomorrow's show, a woman will shoot me.
SUNDAY THE 2nd I shall be sitting in on This Great White North, & my substitute show will feature Canadian New Wave, Postpunk & Power Punk from the late 70's & early 80's. Sunday from 7 to 8:30pm. A Canadian person will not be shot on Sunday's show, because they don't have the gun problems we have in America.
MONDAY THE 3rd LABOR DAY I will be sitting in on the House Call, playing indie musics about drinking, since, besides radio, that's what I'll be doing most during the weekend. Monday from 3:30 - 4:30pm. On this show, I will shoot myself. Not on purpose. I'll be cleaning the gun & it'll just go off.
Streaming live at the times mentioned above CST at koop.org. Archived as soon as possible at selfhelpradio.net.
Listen, & your mind will be changed about gun control!
TODAY FRIDAY THE 31st I shall be doing my regular Self Help Radio gig. From 4:30 to 6pm. On today's show, I will shoot a man.
TOMORROW SATURDAY THE 1st I shall be sitting in on Ear Candy, playing indiepop in a totally not gay way. Saturday from 5 to 7pm. On tomorrow's show, a woman will shoot me.
SUNDAY THE 2nd I shall be sitting in on This Great White North, & my substitute show will feature Canadian New Wave, Postpunk & Power Punk from the late 70's & early 80's. Sunday from 7 to 8:30pm. A Canadian person will not be shot on Sunday's show, because they don't have the gun problems we have in America.
MONDAY THE 3rd LABOR DAY I will be sitting in on the House Call, playing indie musics about drinking, since, besides radio, that's what I'll be doing most during the weekend. Monday from 3:30 - 4:30pm. On this show, I will shoot myself. Not on purpose. I'll be cleaning the gun & it'll just go off.
Streaming live at the times mentioned above CST at koop.org. Archived as soon as possible at selfhelpradio.net.
Listen, & your mind will be changed about gun control!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Damn Junkies!
Lizabeth writes to me: Gary, you get angry a lot or you pretend to be. What's going on?
She wrote me, by the way, on myspace, which is a store for lovers. She wrote me even though she doesn't want to be my "friend." Or she at the very least didn't send a "friend request." & she wants to know why I'm mad?
It's not well-known but I haven't yet found my voice, &, as such, I am often disarmingly confused. One day I write like Ernest Faulkner, the other like Kurt Barthelme. Then, without knowing it, suddenly Grace Paley dies & I feel sad because I still dream, even though I am currently under half her age, of making out with her every time I read her writing. Damn it! Grace Paley never knew I existed! Someone, please, set me up on a blind date with Lorrie Moore!
Anyway, even though it's more regret & sadness that rule my world, it's true that I am wholly helpless in the face of my obscurity, my lack of talent, my inability to get any better at "deejaying" &, for that matter, life, in such a way that occasionally I feel that the only rational response is blind rage. I'm sure you understand.
Having said that, though, I am never really angry when I write on this blog. All I feel is love. Love & hunger. Love, hunger & some kind of French feeling for which only the Germans have a word. Also I feel nauseous, but mainly that's the way you suck your fingers when you read this. I know, it was sexy when you were nineteen, but everything is sexy when you're nineteen - now it's gross because everyone knows you never wash your hands when you go to the bathroom. Seriously, what would it take? A few seconds? Do you really think bacteria are evolving because of your actions?
Whatever. I'm not angry. I'm just dumb. Get used to it.
She wrote me, by the way, on myspace, which is a store for lovers. She wrote me even though she doesn't want to be my "friend." Or she at the very least didn't send a "friend request." & she wants to know why I'm mad?
It's not well-known but I haven't yet found my voice, &, as such, I am often disarmingly confused. One day I write like Ernest Faulkner, the other like Kurt Barthelme. Then, without knowing it, suddenly Grace Paley dies & I feel sad because I still dream, even though I am currently under half her age, of making out with her every time I read her writing. Damn it! Grace Paley never knew I existed! Someone, please, set me up on a blind date with Lorrie Moore!
Anyway, even though it's more regret & sadness that rule my world, it's true that I am wholly helpless in the face of my obscurity, my lack of talent, my inability to get any better at "deejaying" &, for that matter, life, in such a way that occasionally I feel that the only rational response is blind rage. I'm sure you understand.
Having said that, though, I am never really angry when I write on this blog. All I feel is love. Love & hunger. Love, hunger & some kind of French feeling for which only the Germans have a word. Also I feel nauseous, but mainly that's the way you suck your fingers when you read this. I know, it was sexy when you were nineteen, but everything is sexy when you're nineteen - now it's gross because everyone knows you never wash your hands when you go to the bathroom. Seriously, what would it take? A few seconds? Do you really think bacteria are evolving because of your actions?
Whatever. I'm not angry. I'm just dumb. Get used to it.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Whither Indiepop A To Z # 10?
The demand for chocolate - shall we call it hunger? - goes unabated. We must set out to look for it, arming ourselves inconveniently, knowing there are those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate for those of us who truly love the chocolate. They must be stopped &, if possible, utterly destroyed.
Now that we know what we want, we shall seek it. But where could the chocolate be? It is not on the radio, it is not on the TV. It is perhaps under the fingernails or in the pockets of children, but we will not want that chocolate. We want chocolate safely waiting behind wrappers. Alas! The chocolate is enslaved, & it can be bought! Who enslaves the chocolate? Those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate!
Hmmm.
It occurs to me that the phrase "those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate" could be used to describe a lot of people, including many people I know (you know who you are). What's this? I am getting feedback?!?
In a critique of this piece, which I haven't finished writing yet, neo-Marxist author William Stink asserts that I am trying to equate the "hunger for chocolate" with the working class's need for revolution while the wormy-hearted are obviously the bourgeoise. The exact opposite is being discussed on the famous website, Conservative Douchebag, where people who don't get out much & enjoy masturbating to photoshopped pictures of Dick Cheney finger-banging George W Bush have decided that the chocolate lovers are hungry capitalists waiting for deregulation, while the wormhearts are liberal bloggers. I am sad to say no one's right, since I haven't finished writing this yet. Sorry.
Where was I? Fuck. Have I ever told you how really, really hard it is to plot a story? I had a terrific plot for this all worked out, including a very O. Henryesque twist ending involving the narcotic properties of chocolate, & also a very moving description of heartworm to encourage lazy dog owners to take better care of their pets, but when I started to get reviews of today's blog, I completely forgot how the middle part went.
In a sense, I've confined my undeveloped story & its undeveloped characters to a kind of "literary" limbo. Because now I must go home. & I'm reading now from a blogger named Frog Mouth that my excuses here are actually an attempt to be self-reflexive & "tear down the computer screen" that separates me from my audience. Ha! He doesn't know that I don't have an audience! What a maroon!
Only one long blogger - my mother, writing in her secret blog that no one in the family knows about - has bothered to ask the most important question, which I find touching: What the hell does this have to do with Self Help Radio & indiepop? She has some ideas. If you can find her blog, you'll be mesmerized.
Now that we know what we want, we shall seek it. But where could the chocolate be? It is not on the radio, it is not on the TV. It is perhaps under the fingernails or in the pockets of children, but we will not want that chocolate. We want chocolate safely waiting behind wrappers. Alas! The chocolate is enslaved, & it can be bought! Who enslaves the chocolate? Those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate!
Hmmm.
It occurs to me that the phrase "those whose whole hearts bleed viscous, wormy hate" could be used to describe a lot of people, including many people I know (you know who you are). What's this? I am getting feedback?!?
In a critique of this piece, which I haven't finished writing yet, neo-Marxist author William Stink asserts that I am trying to equate the "hunger for chocolate" with the working class's need for revolution while the wormy-hearted are obviously the bourgeoise. The exact opposite is being discussed on the famous website, Conservative Douchebag, where people who don't get out much & enjoy masturbating to photoshopped pictures of Dick Cheney finger-banging George W Bush have decided that the chocolate lovers are hungry capitalists waiting for deregulation, while the wormhearts are liberal bloggers. I am sad to say no one's right, since I haven't finished writing this yet. Sorry.
Where was I? Fuck. Have I ever told you how really, really hard it is to plot a story? I had a terrific plot for this all worked out, including a very O. Henryesque twist ending involving the narcotic properties of chocolate, & also a very moving description of heartworm to encourage lazy dog owners to take better care of their pets, but when I started to get reviews of today's blog, I completely forgot how the middle part went.
In a sense, I've confined my undeveloped story & its undeveloped characters to a kind of "literary" limbo. Because now I must go home. & I'm reading now from a blogger named Frog Mouth that my excuses here are actually an attempt to be self-reflexive & "tear down the computer screen" that separates me from my audience. Ha! He doesn't know that I don't have an audience! What a maroon!
Only one long blogger - my mother, writing in her secret blog that no one in the family knows about - has bothered to ask the most important question, which I find touching: What the hell does this have to do with Self Help Radio & indiepop? She has some ideas. If you can find her blog, you'll be mesmerized.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Preface To Indiepop A To Z # 10 - or is it 10? - how long do I intend to keep this up?
I am swamped like swampland today. I am tired like bald tires today. I am sleepy like a sleepy person today. I am writing like a person who has to write things anyway. Why do I feel that way? I feel that way because I have feelings that are that way.
Or does life truly exist in a lifelike fashion? Can we hope for events that are eventful? Do we want tales that are told? Songs that are sung? Should it be so chancey to take a chance? Do we requires skills if we are to be skillful? Not, you may say, if it's your fears that are making you afraid.
In any case, I am looking forward to planning my radio show this week. I have been mulling over thinking about the "theme," which is a continuation of the Indiepop A To Z which I have been doing every two months, or at least bimonthly, this year. I could say that I want to tell you how good it will be, only I humbly admit I am too modest for such a thing.
As one may attempt to try, while others may fail to lose, surely I am simply starting to begin. If you can't understand it, maybe you can at least make sense of it. Yes? Yeah.
Or does life truly exist in a lifelike fashion? Can we hope for events that are eventful? Do we want tales that are told? Songs that are sung? Should it be so chancey to take a chance? Do we requires skills if we are to be skillful? Not, you may say, if it's your fears that are making you afraid.
In any case, I am looking forward to planning my radio show this week. I have been mulling over thinking about the "theme," which is a continuation of the Indiepop A To Z which I have been doing every two months, or at least bimonthly, this year. I could say that I want to tell you how good it will be, only I humbly admit I am too modest for such a thing.
As one may attempt to try, while others may fail to lose, surely I am simply starting to begin. If you can't understand it, maybe you can at least make sense of it. Yes? Yeah.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Alberto Gonzales Was A Real Fine Lady
My Department Of Justice is a sad Department Of Justice today. It is sad like Iraq, sad like Laura Bush's special naughty place. For our friend Alberto Gonzales, a lovely woman & an accomplished ventriloquist, has left the Department Of Justice because of conflicts with her European tour with Hillary McDuffle. (Also, she's been romantically linked with famous faux lesbian Russkies Tatu, which has made her marriage as sad as Afghanistan, as sad as the man who asked Jenna Bush to wed him.) We here at the Self Help Radio blog, who loved her in the Diane Keaton vehicle "Hollywood Friskies," & who is desperately looking forward to her action-film-genre-slash-obligatory-Quentin-Tarentino-crossover-event, "Obvious Cultural Reference," we must admit we are sad, too. Sad as North Korea, sad as the privates in David Petraeus' tent when he's been on the bottle, working on his September report.
We're almost too sad to mention that our unworthy radio show, known variously as "Self Help Radio," had a show on Friday about the jukebox, & that show is available for listening to in its entirety at selfhelpradio.net. But we know you're going to be sitting at home, like we are, listening to the wonderful mix CD that Alberto Gonzales once made us, which consisted only of "Send In The Clowns" on all twenty-five tracks, with the middle one - track thirteen - a beautiful karaoke version by Alberto herself.
God DAMN she was a real lady.
We're almost too sad to mention that our unworthy radio show, known variously as "Self Help Radio," had a show on Friday about the jukebox, & that show is available for listening to in its entirety at selfhelpradio.net. But we know you're going to be sitting at home, like we are, listening to the wonderful mix CD that Alberto Gonzales once made us, which consisted only of "Send In The Clowns" on all twenty-five tracks, with the middle one - track thirteen - a beautiful karaoke version by Alberto herself.
God DAMN she was a real lady.
Friday, August 24, 2007
The Slow, Sad Decline Of Our Friend The Carpenter Ant
It may surprise our religious friends that the savior of the insect species was not ever a carpenter ant. No, the Insect Messiah will probably not come from colony species such as ants, bees, termites or Scientologists. As we pore over our insect religious texts, we understand that the Insect Messiah will travel long distances to preach to worker ants & worker bees, often outside busy nests, mainly attempting to liberate the workers from their queens. Queens in such cases are perhaps equivalent to the ancient god-kings of the old city-states. In any case, the Insect Messiah has her work cut out for her.
But one needn't be terribly concerned with the Insect Messiah to feel both pity & condescension toward the carpenter ant. This particular species of ant is particularly pathetic. For many hundreds of years now, its culture & literature have languished, & no scholar in her right mind disputes the reason: the shift from living in rotting logs to living in rotting human domiciles. What was once a thriving ant society, with dance, philosophical discussion, & hearty persecution of the drones, has now become a docile, dull totalitarian hive which spends its few leisure hours listening to Fox News on the television. Carpenter ants cannot vote, of course, but studies have shown that if they could vote, they'd to a single ant vote for the Butt Party. This, in contravention to many millenia as free thinkers & robust political gadabouts. It's enough to make the scholar weep for insectkind.
It's no surprise an industry has sprung up making big bucks on the control & eradication of the carpenter ant - they have truly become unpleasant creatures, boring to be around, simple-minded, dull-witted, tiring. If we are to believe their own literature - which has, fortunately, been saved by spiders in their complex spider libraries - these creatures were once the bon vivants of at least the Formicidae world, although their charm even now surpasses that of the boorish wasps, but that's not saying much. One can, if it so suits one, weep for their cultural programming & their capitulation to it, but instead it seems to many that, on the eve of the return of the Insect Messiah, we must move to other, more fertile areas of insect progress & scholarship, & leave those lost causes behind, praising their contributions in the past but regretting the fact that, when the insects rise up to consume the world, the carpenter ant will be not be an integral part of the revolution, but, alas, will find itself among the consumed.
But one needn't be terribly concerned with the Insect Messiah to feel both pity & condescension toward the carpenter ant. This particular species of ant is particularly pathetic. For many hundreds of years now, its culture & literature have languished, & no scholar in her right mind disputes the reason: the shift from living in rotting logs to living in rotting human domiciles. What was once a thriving ant society, with dance, philosophical discussion, & hearty persecution of the drones, has now become a docile, dull totalitarian hive which spends its few leisure hours listening to Fox News on the television. Carpenter ants cannot vote, of course, but studies have shown that if they could vote, they'd to a single ant vote for the Butt Party. This, in contravention to many millenia as free thinkers & robust political gadabouts. It's enough to make the scholar weep for insectkind.
It's no surprise an industry has sprung up making big bucks on the control & eradication of the carpenter ant - they have truly become unpleasant creatures, boring to be around, simple-minded, dull-witted, tiring. If we are to believe their own literature - which has, fortunately, been saved by spiders in their complex spider libraries - these creatures were once the bon vivants of at least the Formicidae world, although their charm even now surpasses that of the boorish wasps, but that's not saying much. One can, if it so suits one, weep for their cultural programming & their capitulation to it, but instead it seems to many that, on the eve of the return of the Insect Messiah, we must move to other, more fertile areas of insect progress & scholarship, & leave those lost causes behind, praising their contributions in the past but regretting the fact that, when the insects rise up to consume the world, the carpenter ant will be not be an integral part of the revolution, but, alas, will find itself among the consumed.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
No One Is Purtier Than You
What would you say to my twitchy eye? Would you try to poke it with your stick? Would you be able to stop the nerves that make it flick & jump so? With your magic stick?
My twitchy eye can't be bothered with your half-assed alchemy. It does not fucking believe you. You know why? You & your poking stick are not threatening, no matter how much you wave it about or how many stories you tell about it. My twitchy eye twitches with skepticism.
Frankly, my twitchy eye thinks you're a twit. Furthermore, my twitchy regards with some nausea the fact that you desperately need people to be afraid of your stick. Your stick is your diaper & your mama's teat. Grow the fuck up, mutters my twitchy eye under its breath. It can't stand the look of you.
Do you really think my eye is twitching because of you? Ha! Ha ha! My eye's twitching because it's tired. It fucking says so here. So don't be waving your dumbass stick at me as if I give anything like half a shit about it. I am just staring too long at my computer screen. You deluded fucknut.
My twitchy eye must go away from the computer now. I see you are busy making friends with people who admire your stick. Of course! Of course!
My twitchy eye can't be bothered with your half-assed alchemy. It does not fucking believe you. You know why? You & your poking stick are not threatening, no matter how much you wave it about or how many stories you tell about it. My twitchy eye twitches with skepticism.
Frankly, my twitchy eye thinks you're a twit. Furthermore, my twitchy regards with some nausea the fact that you desperately need people to be afraid of your stick. Your stick is your diaper & your mama's teat. Grow the fuck up, mutters my twitchy eye under its breath. It can't stand the look of you.
Do you really think my eye is twitching because of you? Ha! Ha ha! My eye's twitching because it's tired. It fucking says so here. So don't be waving your dumbass stick at me as if I give anything like half a shit about it. I am just staring too long at my computer screen. You deluded fucknut.
My twitchy eye must go away from the computer now. I see you are busy making friends with people who admire your stick. Of course! Of course!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Whither Jukeboxes?
Little Snarly lives in the back of a cubicle. All day & all night little Snarly hears the breathy workers as they rattle their keys & their keyboads all the worklong day. Little Snarly wonders if she too were ever a breathy worker, since she has a ring of rattling keys around her waist, & a flat rattly keyboard at her fingertips. But little Snarly cannot breathe, & little Snarly cannot move. She lives frightened in the back of her cubicle.
Little Snarly was not always afraid. Little Snarly used to have a friend. Her friend was full of coins. Little Snarly's friend would pull out a coin & force the gleaming round metal into machine slots. He'd give little Snarly soda, newspapers, candy, telephone calls, bubble gum, toys, anything, anything that could be got by a coin in a slot. But the thing little Snarly liked best wasn't something she could hold in her hands, but something she held in her head: music. Her friend would put a coin into a jukebox & music would come out! Good music, bad music, music you could dance to, music that'd make you laugh, music that'd make you cry, all kind of music! Little Snarly would sit on the folded daily newspaper, chewing gum, eating a candy bar, drinking a soda, sticking tiny stickers on her hands, & sway, sway, sway to her friend's gift of music.
Little Snarly remembered a sad day when her friend ran out of coins. A coinless time began, & her friend, either ashamed of his lack, or perhaps going somewhere to get more coins, her friend disappeared. Little snarly missed him a great deal, missed him more than the newspapers, the candy, the sodas, the toys - but not more than the music. & it occured to little Snarly that, perhaps, she didn't need her friend to get the music. She just needed the coins.
So little Snarly found the cubicle. The keys were dutifully wrapped around her waist & the keyboard was set dutifully in her lap, & little numbers came out of the workers' mouths which told little Snarly that, at some point in time, if she rattled her keys like them & if she rattled her keyboard like them, & if she managed to breathe just like them, she would get coins of her own. So, one coinless day, with only the sound of the rattling of her breathy workers coming in over her cubicle walls, little Snarly rattled, too.
She rattled until she was out of breath, & then she caught her breath, & then she rattled some more. She couldn't quite rattle in the way the breathy workers did, so she tried different kinds of rattling, & when she did this, one worker, called a supervisor, would come into her cubicle, readjust little Snarly's key & reposition little Snarly's keyboard, & then leave her alone again. It must be said, no matter how hard she tried, little Snarly could never rattle like the others did, & she experienced more & more dread every time she tried, because the supervisor's visits were more & more frightening. She kept trying, though, because she couldn't help think about the coins. The coins she would get to help put music in her head.
One day, the supervisor came to little Snarly's cubicle, & wasn't there to readjust her keys or to reposition her keyboard, & little Snarly knew from the smile on her supervisor's face that he was there to give little Snarly her coins. Her heart raced. Her brain was so hungry for sounds other than rattling & breathing that it pounded. The supervisor handed little Snarly an envelope. Little Snarly grabbed for it, almost dancing in her seat. She could hear outside her cubicle that the others had stopped rattling, too. Everyone everywhere was holding their breath.
The envelope was light, too light, but little Snarly opened it anyway. Inside were thin strips of paper in dull colors, folded neatly, as if cut neatly off a giant strip of paper, then folded, & placed into an envelope made just to hold the dull, smooth, same-sized strips of paper. No coins at all. There were no coins in the envelope!
Little Snarly waited for the outrage from beyond the cubicle. But there was none. A single simple sigh emerged from all the workers & then, after the sound of what had to be the same strips of paper in the same handy envelopes stuffed into pockets or drawers or purses or wallets, the breathy workers began to breathe again, & the rattling started again, this time with more determination, more purpose, more self-satisfied somehow, more menacing.
Little Snarly couldn't move. She didn't want a single rattle to come from her. She breathed silently. She simply didn't understand. & she was scared. So she moved slowly - without a rattle - into the back of her cubicle. Where she now lives. & she has forgotten about the coins, & she has forgotten about the music she wanted in her head. & because she makes no sound, her breath nearly silent & her body still, the workers- including the worker called the supervisor - have all simply forgotten about her.
Little Snarly was not always afraid. Little Snarly used to have a friend. Her friend was full of coins. Little Snarly's friend would pull out a coin & force the gleaming round metal into machine slots. He'd give little Snarly soda, newspapers, candy, telephone calls, bubble gum, toys, anything, anything that could be got by a coin in a slot. But the thing little Snarly liked best wasn't something she could hold in her hands, but something she held in her head: music. Her friend would put a coin into a jukebox & music would come out! Good music, bad music, music you could dance to, music that'd make you laugh, music that'd make you cry, all kind of music! Little Snarly would sit on the folded daily newspaper, chewing gum, eating a candy bar, drinking a soda, sticking tiny stickers on her hands, & sway, sway, sway to her friend's gift of music.
Little Snarly remembered a sad day when her friend ran out of coins. A coinless time began, & her friend, either ashamed of his lack, or perhaps going somewhere to get more coins, her friend disappeared. Little snarly missed him a great deal, missed him more than the newspapers, the candy, the sodas, the toys - but not more than the music. & it occured to little Snarly that, perhaps, she didn't need her friend to get the music. She just needed the coins.
So little Snarly found the cubicle. The keys were dutifully wrapped around her waist & the keyboard was set dutifully in her lap, & little numbers came out of the workers' mouths which told little Snarly that, at some point in time, if she rattled her keys like them & if she rattled her keyboard like them, & if she managed to breathe just like them, she would get coins of her own. So, one coinless day, with only the sound of the rattling of her breathy workers coming in over her cubicle walls, little Snarly rattled, too.
She rattled until she was out of breath, & then she caught her breath, & then she rattled some more. She couldn't quite rattle in the way the breathy workers did, so she tried different kinds of rattling, & when she did this, one worker, called a supervisor, would come into her cubicle, readjust little Snarly's key & reposition little Snarly's keyboard, & then leave her alone again. It must be said, no matter how hard she tried, little Snarly could never rattle like the others did, & she experienced more & more dread every time she tried, because the supervisor's visits were more & more frightening. She kept trying, though, because she couldn't help think about the coins. The coins she would get to help put music in her head.
One day, the supervisor came to little Snarly's cubicle, & wasn't there to readjust her keys or to reposition her keyboard, & little Snarly knew from the smile on her supervisor's face that he was there to give little Snarly her coins. Her heart raced. Her brain was so hungry for sounds other than rattling & breathing that it pounded. The supervisor handed little Snarly an envelope. Little Snarly grabbed for it, almost dancing in her seat. She could hear outside her cubicle that the others had stopped rattling, too. Everyone everywhere was holding their breath.
The envelope was light, too light, but little Snarly opened it anyway. Inside were thin strips of paper in dull colors, folded neatly, as if cut neatly off a giant strip of paper, then folded, & placed into an envelope made just to hold the dull, smooth, same-sized strips of paper. No coins at all. There were no coins in the envelope!
Little Snarly waited for the outrage from beyond the cubicle. But there was none. A single simple sigh emerged from all the workers & then, after the sound of what had to be the same strips of paper in the same handy envelopes stuffed into pockets or drawers or purses or wallets, the breathy workers began to breathe again, & the rattling started again, this time with more determination, more purpose, more self-satisfied somehow, more menacing.
Little Snarly couldn't move. She didn't want a single rattle to come from her. She breathed silently. She simply didn't understand. & she was scared. So she moved slowly - without a rattle - into the back of her cubicle. Where she now lives. & she has forgotten about the coins, & she has forgotten about the music she wanted in her head. & because she makes no sound, her breath nearly silent & her body still, the workers- including the worker called the supervisor - have all simply forgotten about her.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Preface To Jukeboxes: This Used To Only Cost A Nickel?
Even with the magic of the iPod, I still wish I had a jukebox. I'd take a digital jukebox - surely they make them that way now - just as long as it's big & full of flashy lights & lets you pick songs from a list. A jukebox is second only to a radio show in having near-complete control of what the people around you are listening to.
There are two jukeboxes in my memory that make me happy.
One was in Garland, Texas, when I was growing up. This one played 45 rpm singles. My sister Karin, de facto (yet resenting it) babysitter for me & my little brother, would occasionally take the two of us with her (& her incredibly skanky friend Tanya) down Cranford & across Saturn Road to a place called Paco Taco. (Maybe it was Paco's Tacos, but I remember it as Paco Taco.) There was a jukebox there, along with what was probably medicore Taco Bell-y Mexican food, although this was the mid-70s, so I don't even know if there were Taco Bells at the time. The jukebox, though, Karin loved. She always played one song - a song I can't think of ever without thinking of her - which was Foghat's "Slow Ride." In that way kids get when they're trying to be a part of something they don't entirely understand, my little brother & I would get excited, too, when she played the song - & I seem to remember that the food always came at the end of that song.
Whether it happened more than once or twice, I don't know. But it apparently stuck in my head. It's a happy memory.
The other jukebox probably no longer exists. either, but it resided for a time in the back area of an Austin dive called The Hole In The Wall. It played CDs. My buddy Mike & I would go there, &, since we were both pretty inept with the pool cue, we invented new rules for pool that weren't as embarrassing as the ones everyone else used, & we'd drink pitchers of beer - ah, & I'd smoke, back in those lovely days when I was a smoker & you could smoke in bars - & get increasingly drunk as we'd get increasingly worse at pool. (One of the rules of our pool, if I remember correctly, was that, if you made a particularly bad shot, you had to give your pool cue to the other player, since it was obviously the cue's fault, & you wanted your opponent to have the bad luck.)
The Hole In The Wall's jukebox was pretty piss-poor, so mainly we'd listen to what other people programmed, but I in particular loved to play "pool" to two songs on that pathetic nickelodeon: the Knack's "Good Girls Don't" & Bruce Springsteen's "Born To Run." I can't recall if there was anything more hip on that jukebox, but other, cooler jukeboxes (which seem to be cool only because they have the last few Johnny Cash records & "Sandanista!" by the Clash on them) never seem to impress me much anyway.
A jukebox is more about where it's at than its content, it seems to me. Those two jukeboxes were at the right place & the right time to make me happy & therefore to give me happy memories.
There are two jukeboxes in my memory that make me happy.
One was in Garland, Texas, when I was growing up. This one played 45 rpm singles. My sister Karin, de facto (yet resenting it) babysitter for me & my little brother, would occasionally take the two of us with her (& her incredibly skanky friend Tanya) down Cranford & across Saturn Road to a place called Paco Taco. (Maybe it was Paco's Tacos, but I remember it as Paco Taco.) There was a jukebox there, along with what was probably medicore Taco Bell-y Mexican food, although this was the mid-70s, so I don't even know if there were Taco Bells at the time. The jukebox, though, Karin loved. She always played one song - a song I can't think of ever without thinking of her - which was Foghat's "Slow Ride." In that way kids get when they're trying to be a part of something they don't entirely understand, my little brother & I would get excited, too, when she played the song - & I seem to remember that the food always came at the end of that song.
Whether it happened more than once or twice, I don't know. But it apparently stuck in my head. It's a happy memory.
The other jukebox probably no longer exists. either, but it resided for a time in the back area of an Austin dive called The Hole In The Wall. It played CDs. My buddy Mike & I would go there, &, since we were both pretty inept with the pool cue, we invented new rules for pool that weren't as embarrassing as the ones everyone else used, & we'd drink pitchers of beer - ah, & I'd smoke, back in those lovely days when I was a smoker & you could smoke in bars - & get increasingly drunk as we'd get increasingly worse at pool. (One of the rules of our pool, if I remember correctly, was that, if you made a particularly bad shot, you had to give your pool cue to the other player, since it was obviously the cue's fault, & you wanted your opponent to have the bad luck.)
The Hole In The Wall's jukebox was pretty piss-poor, so mainly we'd listen to what other people programmed, but I in particular loved to play "pool" to two songs on that pathetic nickelodeon: the Knack's "Good Girls Don't" & Bruce Springsteen's "Born To Run." I can't recall if there was anything more hip on that jukebox, but other, cooler jukeboxes (which seem to be cool only because they have the last few Johnny Cash records & "Sandanista!" by the Clash on them) never seem to impress me much anyway.
A jukebox is more about where it's at than its content, it seems to me. Those two jukeboxes were at the right place & the right time to make me happy & therefore to give me happy memories.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Dues Paid In Advance
But what, might I ask, is the opposite of groin?
Let us instead praise heartfelt ice creams. I nominate Ben & Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk. Or should I have said "heart-stopping"? Never mind. My cats beg for it. That's good enough for me.
I have pulled a muscle in my back, but I have since applied heat & I feel a little better. Ice cream in no way helps with the nausea, but what else can I do? My girlfriend is doing research & I am afraid of wasps. How else can you recommend doubt & disbelief to your friends &/or loved ones?
Oh! Before I forget! If you missed the Self Help Radio radio show I did last Friday (or the Friday before that, going back an entire year & sometimes more), you can listen to it as if it were on for the first time, except as an mp3, at selfhelpradio.net. If you like it, I promise I will make more (also, I will make more if you don't like it, but that shouldn't bother you). Like most radio shows, it's a mixture of music & talk, but unlike most radio shows, it's actually completely naked. & unashamed. It's not reacting to a repressive religious upbringing or anything - it just simply doesn't wear clothes. Maybe you find that sexy?
If ice creams lasted forever, would we all be fat & sticky? Do all words have opposites? Why don't we have breakfast together? Especially later in the day?
That's all I have for now. I am going to pretend that I can play lead guitar to sneakily try out for the Ramonalisas. I may be able to fool them if I hum loudly while I am "playing." Ha ha! We'll see!
Let us instead praise heartfelt ice creams. I nominate Ben & Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk. Or should I have said "heart-stopping"? Never mind. My cats beg for it. That's good enough for me.
I have pulled a muscle in my back, but I have since applied heat & I feel a little better. Ice cream in no way helps with the nausea, but what else can I do? My girlfriend is doing research & I am afraid of wasps. How else can you recommend doubt & disbelief to your friends &/or loved ones?
Oh! Before I forget! If you missed the Self Help Radio radio show I did last Friday (or the Friday before that, going back an entire year & sometimes more), you can listen to it as if it were on for the first time, except as an mp3, at selfhelpradio.net. If you like it, I promise I will make more (also, I will make more if you don't like it, but that shouldn't bother you). Like most radio shows, it's a mixture of music & talk, but unlike most radio shows, it's actually completely naked. & unashamed. It's not reacting to a repressive religious upbringing or anything - it just simply doesn't wear clothes. Maybe you find that sexy?
If ice creams lasted forever, would we all be fat & sticky? Do all words have opposites? Why don't we have breakfast together? Especially later in the day?
That's all I have for now. I am going to pretend that I can play lead guitar to sneakily try out for the Ramonalisas. I may be able to fool them if I hum loudly while I am "playing." Ha ha! We'll see!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Sad Story Of A Sensitive Man
This is an absolutely true & ridiculous story about me. It happened yesterday. I wanted to share.
I was waiting at the busstop yesterday, listening to songs about bones in my continual decision-making process about the songs I will play on my show, & reading Christopher Hitchens' wonderful new book, God Is Not Great, when, as is not uncommon, a homeless fellow, who had been standing next to me but not making eye contact, turned & asked for change.
I had to turn off my iPod, & turn to him, & he was a scrawny, filthy thing, with teeth all back & a face cracked & red with damage from too much sun & way too much alcohol. I'm not sure what all he said, because he was still talking as I was pulling my iPod out of my back pocket & turning it off, but I did hear him say, "A little change I gotta get me something..."
I generally give change to whomever asks for it, as long as I have it, & I gave him the 85 cents I had in my pocket. He was curt as he grumbled a "thank you" & made a beeline for the convenience store across the street. I noticed he had talked to me as the bus was driving up - I guess he felt I'd be digging in my pocket for change anyway, so he could hit me up then. Very crafty!
I didn't think about him at all for the rest of the day & wouldn't have, I'm sad to say, except when I went to get some whiskey that evening, last night, he accosted me outside the liquor store as I was going in. I didn't have any change & I said so, & he turning away before I finished as he sensed he wasn't going to get any money from me. But that's not what makes this a sad story of a sensitive man. What makes this a sad story of a sensitive man is what follows:
I was a little offended that he didn't remember I had given him money earlier in the day.
Isn't that pathetic? I told my girlfriend the story & laughed at myself. How could he not remember the ugly sweaty dude waiting for the bus who helped him get his morning drink on? The nerve! The gall! The impudence!
How sad is that? Oh, don't answer. I am become a caricature. Don't I know.
I was waiting at the busstop yesterday, listening to songs about bones in my continual decision-making process about the songs I will play on my show, & reading Christopher Hitchens' wonderful new book, God Is Not Great, when, as is not uncommon, a homeless fellow, who had been standing next to me but not making eye contact, turned & asked for change.
I had to turn off my iPod, & turn to him, & he was a scrawny, filthy thing, with teeth all back & a face cracked & red with damage from too much sun & way too much alcohol. I'm not sure what all he said, because he was still talking as I was pulling my iPod out of my back pocket & turning it off, but I did hear him say, "A little change I gotta get me something..."
I generally give change to whomever asks for it, as long as I have it, & I gave him the 85 cents I had in my pocket. He was curt as he grumbled a "thank you" & made a beeline for the convenience store across the street. I noticed he had talked to me as the bus was driving up - I guess he felt I'd be digging in my pocket for change anyway, so he could hit me up then. Very crafty!
I didn't think about him at all for the rest of the day & wouldn't have, I'm sad to say, except when I went to get some whiskey that evening, last night, he accosted me outside the liquor store as I was going in. I didn't have any change & I said so, & he turning away before I finished as he sensed he wasn't going to get any money from me. But that's not what makes this a sad story of a sensitive man. What makes this a sad story of a sensitive man is what follows:
I was a little offended that he didn't remember I had given him money earlier in the day.
Isn't that pathetic? I told my girlfriend the story & laughed at myself. How could he not remember the ugly sweaty dude waiting for the bus who helped him get his morning drink on? The nerve! The gall! The impudence!
How sad is that? Oh, don't answer. I am become a caricature. Don't I know.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Whither Bones?
I live with an anatomist. She has a skeleton - not a real human one, but one that accurately represents the bone structure of your average human being, only made out of plastic or something. It's in our living room. It doesn't like me.
Let me first say that I am the least "spiritual" person you'll ever meet. I don't really have any beliefs that go beyond the material world. I don't think there's sprites or fairies or gods or devils or ghosts or poltergeists or Merv Griffins out there (well, not any more, in the case of Merv). But I do know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that that plastic replica of a human skeleton is not only alive - it wants to consume the flesh of everything in my house.
Everything? you may ask. Yes, you may. The cats & the dogs, the rats & the frogs, the gnats & the hogs. The hats & the logs. The chats & the snogs. The spats & the togs. The fats & the fogs. The mats by the bogs. The pats on the cogs. Everything, but especially those things that rhyme with "cat" & "dog." Also, me. I don't rhyme with cat or dog (though I do rhyme with "Hairy Stickerson") (which, I know, has nothing to do with this, but I was feeling left out) (it isn't a bad rhyme, you know) (my girlfriend rhymes with Bogda Butch-chin-tree - that's a much worse thing to rhyme with) (anyway) I don't rhyme with cat or dog, but it still wants to consume my flesh.
Why does it want to consume my flesh? Because it has no flesh, duh. It will consume the flesh of the living things in the house & then it will look like some kind of fucked up man-woman-beagle-cat thing. But it still won't be able to talk. That's the flaw in its plan! It can't talk.
So, on Self Help Radio this Friday, I am giving it a voice. My theory is this, & a very good one it is at that: since it wants to talk more than it wants flesh - in fact, since it thinks if it gets flesh, it'll be able to talk, but it doesn't know how completely stupid that sounds - if I give it a voice, it won't want to kill me anymore. Ergo, a show about bones. Which is all it is, really. Hungry, envious, murderous bones.
I know, I should just throw it out, but if I do my girlfriend will kill me.
Let me first say that I am the least "spiritual" person you'll ever meet. I don't really have any beliefs that go beyond the material world. I don't think there's sprites or fairies or gods or devils or ghosts or poltergeists or Merv Griffins out there (well, not any more, in the case of Merv). But I do know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that that plastic replica of a human skeleton is not only alive - it wants to consume the flesh of everything in my house.
Everything? you may ask. Yes, you may. The cats & the dogs, the rats & the frogs, the gnats & the hogs. The hats & the logs. The chats & the snogs. The spats & the togs. The fats & the fogs. The mats by the bogs. The pats on the cogs. Everything, but especially those things that rhyme with "cat" & "dog." Also, me. I don't rhyme with cat or dog (though I do rhyme with "Hairy Stickerson") (which, I know, has nothing to do with this, but I was feeling left out) (it isn't a bad rhyme, you know) (my girlfriend rhymes with Bogda Butch-chin-tree - that's a much worse thing to rhyme with) (anyway) I don't rhyme with cat or dog, but it still wants to consume my flesh.
Why does it want to consume my flesh? Because it has no flesh, duh. It will consume the flesh of the living things in the house & then it will look like some kind of fucked up man-woman-beagle-cat thing. But it still won't be able to talk. That's the flaw in its plan! It can't talk.
So, on Self Help Radio this Friday, I am giving it a voice. My theory is this, & a very good one it is at that: since it wants to talk more than it wants flesh - in fact, since it thinks if it gets flesh, it'll be able to talk, but it doesn't know how completely stupid that sounds - if I give it a voice, it won't want to kill me anymore. Ergo, a show about bones. Which is all it is, really. Hungry, envious, murderous bones.
I know, I should just throw it out, but if I do my girlfriend will kill me.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Preface To Bones: The Deliberate Mistruth Of "Cracking Knuckles"
Here's a picture of some bones, & what you can call them if you want to talk to them.
I have never broken a bone. I have dislocated a bone, but the bone found its way back, usually by asking a friendly doctor & being told the proper way back. I am lucky I haven't broken a bone. Maybe it's because my bones, like myself, are cowardly. Every chance my bones have had to break, they have instead chosen to run & hide. My skin, which may be a little braver (or feels it needs to be, anyway), has therefore been bruised a lot. Thanks bones!
I once saw a person break his foot by getting up incorrectly. It's true! But I didn't hear a bone snap. I can't imagine that would sound very good. Perhaps it would sound more squishy than "popping your knuckles." It seems to me that most television shows & movies leave out how squishy it must sound when things move around in our flesh - including bones, knives, bullets, etc.
Oh yeah, I've never been shot or stabbed, either. I've lived a dull life. My girlfriend came back from South Africa with African Tick Bite Fever. That's like being shot & stabbed by one bad-ass African Tick. I guess I got bit by a Brown Recluse Spider once, but I got it by stepping on it in a sock I hadn't worn all winter. The spider bit me in self-defense. That's not the same.
Someone told me that the bad thing about not having had any broken bones is that, the longer you wait to finally break a bone, the older you get, & therefore the longer it'll take to heal. That will suck. But, knowing my bones, they'll wait until it's something major, like a hip, or my skull. Jerks.
That picture above says we have 206 - 350 bones. That seems quite a discrepancy. Why tell us the low number most of the time? I mean, I always heard we have 210 bones. Are there some folks with more bones? Are they more likely to break them than those with the small number? Or does the larger number mean you get more small bones, like in your ear? Are there people out there with a hundred bones in their ear? Do they hear a weird rattling all the time? Does they drive them crazy? Do crazy serial killer types have more bones than those of us who couldn't harm a fly? Have I hit on something here? Should I go & pursue that degree in sociology I've always wanted?
Bones ask more questions than they answer. They're like beagles in that regard. Hmm, I wonder how many bones a beagle has...
I have never broken a bone. I have dislocated a bone, but the bone found its way back, usually by asking a friendly doctor & being told the proper way back. I am lucky I haven't broken a bone. Maybe it's because my bones, like myself, are cowardly. Every chance my bones have had to break, they have instead chosen to run & hide. My skin, which may be a little braver (or feels it needs to be, anyway), has therefore been bruised a lot. Thanks bones!
I once saw a person break his foot by getting up incorrectly. It's true! But I didn't hear a bone snap. I can't imagine that would sound very good. Perhaps it would sound more squishy than "popping your knuckles." It seems to me that most television shows & movies leave out how squishy it must sound when things move around in our flesh - including bones, knives, bullets, etc.
Oh yeah, I've never been shot or stabbed, either. I've lived a dull life. My girlfriend came back from South Africa with African Tick Bite Fever. That's like being shot & stabbed by one bad-ass African Tick. I guess I got bit by a Brown Recluse Spider once, but I got it by stepping on it in a sock I hadn't worn all winter. The spider bit me in self-defense. That's not the same.
Someone told me that the bad thing about not having had any broken bones is that, the longer you wait to finally break a bone, the older you get, & therefore the longer it'll take to heal. That will suck. But, knowing my bones, they'll wait until it's something major, like a hip, or my skull. Jerks.
That picture above says we have 206 - 350 bones. That seems quite a discrepancy. Why tell us the low number most of the time? I mean, I always heard we have 210 bones. Are there some folks with more bones? Are they more likely to break them than those with the small number? Or does the larger number mean you get more small bones, like in your ear? Are there people out there with a hundred bones in their ear? Do they hear a weird rattling all the time? Does they drive them crazy? Do crazy serial killer types have more bones than those of us who couldn't harm a fly? Have I hit on something here? Should I go & pursue that degree in sociology I've always wanted?
Bones ask more questions than they answer. They're like beagles in that regard. Hmm, I wonder how many bones a beagle has...
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Disappointing 200th Post
Wow, what a letdown. After all that hype, too. Could there have been a more disappointing 200th post to the Self Help Radio blog? I am so sorry. Please enjoy the complimentary rue.
To be fair, the media shares some of the blame. Maybe because it was a slow news cycle, or because of the weird promise I made while drunk that I had cured cancer & invented a way to make money out of cheese. I wish I was like other drunk people & didn't spell check my pronouncements! Alas! Alack!
Also, I am angry at YOU. You know who you are, even if I don't. Your expectations, which should be pretty low, considering the previous posts on this blog, were way too high for this, the 200th entry. Your emails, your planned "post parties," the rumors you began to spread about "guest entries" - Matt Damon? George Jetson? Ramblin' Jack Ponytail? Robin Williams in a burka? - how could you? - all of this contributed to a status which this lowly, unambitious blog couldn't attain. It never had a chance.
But I have to be honest. My mother deserves a lion's share of the blame. She raised me to dream big but act small. I remember, when I had come in second in a spelling bee in fifth grade, & didn't get to travel to Washington DC for the finals, she told me, "It serves you right for even trying. Now you're disappointed. If you hadn't entered, you wouldn't be upset now about going to the nation's capital, which is a shithole anyway. Give mama your hand, I need to put out this cigarette." & that was a high point of my childhood. The point is, if I wasn't my mother's son, I wouldn't be the disappointment I have since turned out to be.
Of course, none of it is my fault. So, let me formally apologize for this disappointing 200th post & let's move on to more or less the same sort of thing for the next one hundred. Oh boy! One hundred more posts! Who would've thought? Etc., etc.
To be fair, the media shares some of the blame. Maybe because it was a slow news cycle, or because of the weird promise I made while drunk that I had cured cancer & invented a way to make money out of cheese. I wish I was like other drunk people & didn't spell check my pronouncements! Alas! Alack!
Also, I am angry at YOU. You know who you are, even if I don't. Your expectations, which should be pretty low, considering the previous posts on this blog, were way too high for this, the 200th entry. Your emails, your planned "post parties," the rumors you began to spread about "guest entries" - Matt Damon? George Jetson? Ramblin' Jack Ponytail? Robin Williams in a burka? - how could you? - all of this contributed to a status which this lowly, unambitious blog couldn't attain. It never had a chance.
But I have to be honest. My mother deserves a lion's share of the blame. She raised me to dream big but act small. I remember, when I had come in second in a spelling bee in fifth grade, & didn't get to travel to Washington DC for the finals, she told me, "It serves you right for even trying. Now you're disappointed. If you hadn't entered, you wouldn't be upset now about going to the nation's capital, which is a shithole anyway. Give mama your hand, I need to put out this cigarette." & that was a high point of my childhood. The point is, if I wasn't my mother's son, I wouldn't be the disappointment I have since turned out to be.
Of course, none of it is my fault. So, let me formally apologize for this disappointing 200th post & let's move on to more or less the same sort of thing for the next one hundred. Oh boy! One hundred more posts! Who would've thought? Etc., etc.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Suddenly! 199 Posts!
The countdown to 200 continues. Wow, that's a milestone. I can't even imagine how great it'll be. Most people in the world don't write 200 letters in their lifetime - they don't read 200 books all their lives - or even know 200 words, when you think about it. But I - me! - have, just in support of what many describe as an astonishingly piss-poor radio show, written almost 200 posts! There should be a celebration - certainly expensive alcoholic drinks should be passed out & imbibed- & there should be dancing - & speeches by dignitaries who will put my precious prescient words in their proper context - death row inmates spared - a national holiday! Oh wouldn't that be swell. What an accomplishment! Nearly 200 little paragraphs of ramblings about Self Help Radio &/or my tiny life. Sigh. This might make up for nearly forty years of broken dreams.
No. No, it doesn't.
If you feel sticksome & glueish right now - & maybe were feeling that way on Friday, but didn't get a chance to listen to my show then - the theme was "glue" - you can now go to selfhelpradio.net & listen to it in its gummy gooey entirety. What fun!
& tomorrow: the 200th post to this blog! Keep an eye on the news - I bet the networks will be covering this one!
No. No, it doesn't.
If you feel sticksome & glueish right now - & maybe were feeling that way on Friday, but didn't get a chance to listen to my show then - the theme was "glue" - you can now go to selfhelpradio.net & listen to it in its gummy gooey entirety. What fun!
& tomorrow: the 200th post to this blog! Keep an eye on the news - I bet the networks will be covering this one!