Tags & Tricks, Episode One

The first episode of my all-new jazz show (the show is all new; the jazz I played isn't) is now available for your listening pleasure (if you wish) at selfhelpradio.net.

I'm pretty excited about it, since I enjoy jazz & wish I played more jazz but really don't know a damn thing about jazz. Maybe this will help me learn. Maybe I should write "things I learned from this week's episode" type summaries at the end of every radio show I do. I learn a lot! But then, maybe you'd think of them as "Cliff's Notes" of the shows & then you wouldn't listen. Because you don't love music. You Philistine!

Interestingly, I've used the epithet "Philistine" against people who don't love art & learning before, but until now, I didn't really know what it meant. I assumed it was Biblical, but here's the explanation, taken from this web site:

"The key turning point toward the modern sense of the word occurred in Germany. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a quarrel between university students & local townspeople in Jena in 1693 resulted in the killing of a student. In a sermon at the student's funeral, a speaker used the German word Philister ('Philistine') as an insult to the townspeople. Soon German university students began widely applying the term to anyone they regarded as an outsider, that is, someone who was not a student, hence a nonstudious, unenlightened, uncultured person."

Now that's something I learned today!

What Is "Tags & Tricks"?

My desire to express as many elements as possible of my music collection can be wearying. It was hard enough, oh those many years ago, to come up with the name "Self Help Radio" for a radio show. (I was originally going to call it "Too Stupid To Die.") (Back in my KVRX days the best name I came up with for my show, which aired on Mondays, was "Thursdays With Gary." So the tagline would be, "Every Monday night, it's Thursdays with Gary!" That book "Tuesdays With Morrie" came out around that time, which made the name seem derivative & stupid.) (Yeah, like "Self Help Radio" is original.) (Anyway.) Now that I have "Self Help Radio," "Sugar Substitute" & "Dickenbock Electronics," I wanted equally snappy names for my new jazz & old-timey country & blues show. But what?

I was reading around about jazz & on this Wikipedia quotes page, I found this "definition" of jazz from an obvious fan in 1927:

"Jazz is not a 'form' but a collection of tags & tricks."
Ernest Newman. The Sunday Times, "The World of Music", 4 September 1927.

That's hilarious, yeah? So why not call the show "Tags & Tricks"? So I shall.

& hey! It premieres tomorrow! Look for it on selfhelpradio.net!

Pretend Moral

A cautionary tale of two men who couldn't play guitar, written by little Dickie Dickenbock.

One man who couldn't play guitar was Dave. He not only couldn't play guitar but was tone-deaf.

The other man who couldn't play guitar was Rick. He loved rock & roll & wanted to be a rock & roller. In fact, he loved the work "rock." He appreciated when bands sang songs about "rock." When his favorite radio show, which had "rock" in the title, went off the air at his local public radio station, he almost didn't renew his membership until he realized there was another show with "rock" in the title replacing it. It was a completely different show, but he felt that it was important that the word "rock" was out there.

Naturally, the two of them formed a band. It was awful. They found a drummer who could keep time, & a bassist who looked mean, but no matter how they tried, Dave & Rick couldn't play guitar. They played for friends at parties, they played a "battle of the bands" night at their favorite bar, they practiced in a space where other bands could hear them, & the verdict was clear: they weren't a very good band.

It also didn't help that Dave was the lead singer.

One night, at a show where they opened for a friend's band, a very nice man named Jeff happened to hear two guys at the bar making fun of the band. The drinking buddies started with band's name - Solid Rock - & quickly found their way to the band's sheer inability to play. Jeff was infuriated by this. In addition to the cruelty of the comments, & the lack of sympathy for anyone having to perform in a live venue, the two fellows - Jeff thought - seemed to think such people couldn't get better. What if this were their first show? Maybe even the Beatles sounded like this when they had just started!

Jeff decided to become the band's manager. He did everything in his power - straining his marriage, missing a promotion at work, investing his own money in the band's future - to help Dave & Rick get lessons, have time to practice, have places to play.

But nothing helped. They never got any better. Their songs were derivative, their on-stage antics embarrassing, their skills barely progressing past their first show. (Some even say the drummer lost the ability to keep time.) When the bassist was arrested for assaulting a man he thought was hitting on his girlfriend, Dave & Rick, exhausted by all the hard work they put in & resentful of the world's disinterest, told Jeff they were quitting. Rick said, "It's okay. Rock & roll will never die."

Jeff eventually lost his job & he & his wife separated soon after.

The moral of the story is this: you can encourage anyone to follow their dreams, but you probably shouldn't get involved. More often than not, it's not going to end well.

The Day Of The Remains

I've already mentioned that this week's episode of Self Help Radio is available for listening at selfhelpradio.net, didn't I? It's about tunnels. You love tunnels. You should go listen to it.

My wife just left me. Now, wait, that came out wrong. She's going to come back. I hope. She says she will. She's going to Africa to do scientific stuff for an entire month. That's right! Thirty American days! & it's summer, so the days are longer!

Anyway, my wife has temporarily left me so of course I can now concentrate on making great radio for you. Unless you're leaving too. Well, I will assume you're not. & if you are, don't tell me. I'm too fragile at the moment.

I am going to make great radio for you for the month of March. That's wonderful, isn't it? Starting this Saturday, when I premiere my jazz program, "Tags & Tricks." Why is it called that? You're have to listen!

Since I put it on my website, you know, you can listen to it anywhere. Even if you're leaving. Rats! I should have told that to my wife.

Whither Tunnels?

I feel like I've been in a tunnel for a couple of days & have only now emerged. My apologies for not being as disciplined with this blog as I should, but the wife is leaving the country for a while (she's not on the lam, just being a scientist) so I've been spending time with her. Also, I nap a lot. So please, pardon my tunnel vision.

But! The tunnel has a light at the end & that light is this week's Self Help Radio, which went off with the adequate number of hitches (whatever that means) & which you can listen to at your leisure at selfhelpradio.net.

Might I suggest listening to it in a tunnel?

Preface To Tunnels: The Many Tunnels I've Been In

I guess I've been in a lot of tunnels. The longest tunnel - & possibly the scariest - was the tunnel under the English Channel. That tunnel is 31 miles long. Shorter tunnels I go through nearly every day - underneath the railroad tracks that separate Huntington-by-the-river from Huntington-by-the-highway. (I don't know if those are official designations.)

There are some awesome tunnels through mountains at the Virginia/West Virginia border on highway 77 in the Jefferson National Forest. I don't know how long they are but they are fun to drive through. It made me think of the tunnel in The Fugitive, well-lit but with mysterious doors into which Harrison Ford can escape.

A tunnel I've been through multiple times is the tunnel that separates the Oakland/Berkeley area from the eastern suburbs of the Bay Area (where the wife is from). It can be unbearably hot on one side of the tunnel, & then, emerging toward San Francisco, the temperature will have dropped twenty degrees, & it's the perfect temperature for rolling down the window & speeding toward The City.

The wikipedia says that "tunnels in general... are at least twice as long as they are wide." I would also think that tunnels tend to be horizontal - or somewhat horizontal - so a hole in the ground is a tunnel at all. A tunnel can be on an angle, of course. Just not vertical. Although - now that I think about it - though the wikipedia (again) says a tunnel is "an underground passageway," surely you can have tunnels in giant spacecraft, yes? Or giant vehicles of any kind? & those aren't technically underground, are they?

Hurrah! Dickenbock Electronics!

Yes, hooray! The first Saturday episode of Dickenbock Electronics went off without any complaints by the Robot Board Of Trustees. I don't trust those trustees. They're untrustworthy.

It's available where it ought to be at selfhelpradio.net. You can listen to it at your leisure. Or actively, if your circuits require it. Guaranteed to increase your personal processing speed by 0.007%!

Next week will be the premiere of my jazz show. Which is currently untitled. Do you want to name it? You can if you want. Just send me an email. Otherwise I'll be forced to come up with a name myself. Eep.

Dream-Ending Dreams

I just woke up from a nap, & what woke me up was what I call a "dream-ending dream." These dreams are both impossibly familiar, & at the same time so completely absurd, that it shocks your system into consciousness just to assess their near-comic outrageousness.

There's nothing more boring than listening to someone tell you his or her dream (unless it's someone who think they can "interpret" a dream) (or than watching someone tell someone else their dream & having it interpreted) so I won't bore you with details except that this dream seemed to be about a "tradition," which is to say, something I did every year or so (which I never have) & which also referenced past examples of the tradition. The dream, therefore, either referred back to other dreams I've had (which seems terribly unlikely, with this fading memory of mine), or it created those memories & made them feel like memories in the dream.

The latter is more probable, & that's why dreams are so awesome. Still, if, when you dream, you retain a modicum of your own sense of self - like, for example, you're scared of heights, & in a dream you're going to bungee jump or parachute - then the dream of something so unlike you - or so unlikely that you would ever do such a thing - so disturbs your sense of self that it becomes a "dream-ending dream." It wakes you up to take stock of your sense of self, &, in the midst of the dream's artificial familiarity & its haphazardly concocted reminiscences, you have to return to consciousness just to make sure it wasn't real.

I don't think most of these "dream-ending dreams" are scary to the point of nightmare, but some of them have been a little on the exciting side - involving chases or other dramatic movie-style sequences - again, referencing something that probably couldn't or wouldn't ever happen to me.

I do wonder if they're the body's way of waking one up when one needs to wake up from, say, an overlong afternoon nap. I know a dude who naps thirty minutes each day in the afternoon. Thirty minutes! It usually takes that long for me to get to sleep!

Hey Choosers!

See, I know you're not beggars. Since beggars can't be choosers. Ergo, through the transitive property of fol de rol, with only a slight detour through the axioms of gibberish & nonsense, Q.E.D. ipso facto, you must be the choosers who cannot be beggars. I defy you to find the logic in my reasoning!

Since you are choosers & since you do in fact have a choice, & since I'm usually the last choice in pretty much anything, I might as well make sure you know you have a choice in radio shows if/when you should want to listen to them. (You can choose not to, I know.) That choice which you can be chosen last if you so choose is Self Help Radio, & this week's episode, which is about beggars (not choosers), is now available at selfhelpradio.net.

Is the show a choice blend of great musics? I wouldn't choose that language. But I think I chose well, among all the songs available about begging.

Please enjoy.

"Mendicancy"

Three more things to say about begging:

1) I have a story about something sort of like begging I did when I was in middle school, but it is really quite embarrassing - one of those things you either have to go all the way with or else risk it being uncovered by an unscrupulous biographer. Not that I'll ever have anyone write a biography about me. But if I did. I'd prefer not to tell.

2) One thing I'm not ashamed of, though it irritates some people I know, is that I generally give change to people who ask me for it on the street. In Austin, walking down Guadalupe in the afternoon, I'd empty my pockets for the bums & street kids who were there. When I was a smoker, I'd also give away cigarettes. It seemed the least I could do. So far I've only been hit up by folks outside a Chinese restaurant here in Huntington, & I've given them change, too. Although the two or three people who've asked me for money have been specific & have wanted at least a dollar. Which suggests to me that, even if there isn't much competition, there are fewer people around here willing to part with their coinage, so your average West Virginian beggar needs to aim higher.

3) But I don't give money to people begging at intersections or near highway off-ramps. I don't know why that bugs me so much. Maybe because I am forced to look at them - which is what they want - & feel a little guilty. I think also that I sometimes worry if I give them money, I'll hold up traffic. Anyway, they don't seem to do that in West Virginia, either. But in Austin, there was usually someone at major roads & off-ramps. At one intersection near where I lived in Austin, there'd be bums begging at almost every corner. You couldn't avoid them.

Remember, there's an entire Self Help Radio show about begging coming tomorrow! It's true! I'll let you know when it happens!

Whither Begging?

Oh, you know, there's a wikipedia article about begging, which contains the hilarious line: "Beggars rarely recorded their techniques, & often used to disguise their own communication." It's sometimes pretty hard to read their signs, it's true. & I guess they would get lost down the ages.

There's also a helpful list of notable beggars. (I checked, I wasn't there.)

The word seems to have an interesting & disputed past. Here's what it says at this online encyclopedia:

Beggar, one who begs, particularly one who gains his [or her] living by asking the charitable contributions of others . The word, with the verbal forrn " to beg," in Middle English beggen, is of obscure history . The words appear first in English in the 13th century, & were early connected with "bag," with reference to the receptacle for alms carried by the beggars . The most probable derivation of the word, & that now generally accepted, is that it is a corruption of the name of the lay communities known as Beguines & Beghards, which, shortly after their establishment, followed the friars in the practice of mendicancy.

It goes on to mention - then discount - another origin, which the Wiktionary definition thinks is probable: "Probably from Old English bedecian." What does bedecian mean? According to the above encyclopedia, bedecian is "a rare Old English word... which is apparently connected with the Gothic bidjan... but between the occurrence of bedecian at the end of the 9th century & the appearance of 'beggar' & 'beg' in the 13th, there is a blank, & no explanation can be given of the great change in form."

Take that!

The Free Dictionary takes a different view. It says the word beggar is from "Middle English, from Old French begart, ultimately from Middle Dutch beggaert, one who rattles off prayers." Since I know that holy folks from England to Delhi have been beggars & lived in poverty for centuries, I kinda dig this origin.

But I am not an etymologist, so I can only look at what everyone is saying, & pretend I have earned an opinion in the matter.

Also, mendicancy? Let's bring that word back into wider usage, shall we?

Preface To Begging: What Shall I Put On My Sign Today?

A while back, the wife & I were driving through rural Ohio & we noticed some mildly creative - mostly groanworthy - church marquee signs. She said, "I think I should take some pictures & start collecting them!" One quick web search later, & we discovered (of course) that there was already such a site.

As I was thinking about beggars & begging - this week's theme - I thought about the crazy signs that people begging for money would have in Austin (not so many beggars in Huntington) & I thought, "I should have taken pictures!"

But of course someone already has. & also someone else. & probably more.

At least there's a place where I can get an idea if ever I am reduced to begging on the street. I like this one:

What's Coming Next

I am saying my goodbyes to WMUL this week, & have done my last show there, but of course Self Help Radio will continue as it has, with or without a radio station, heck! with or without listeners! I will have new shows every Tuesday but I'm loathe to abandon the other shows that I've also been doing, Dickenbock Electronics & Sugar Substitute.

Thus & therefore I'll continue to do them, but will do them now on Saturdays, & I'll add a couple of shows to satisfy my restless musical wanderings; one will be a jazz show, the other will be an old-time scratchy record country & blues show. I haven't come up with names yet. Do you want to help me name them?

The shows will alternate so they're basically monthly. Self Help Radio weekly, the other shows monthly. Self Help Radio on Tuesdays, the other shows on Saturday. More material for me to share. More material for you to ignore!

What's coming next is really not so different from what is, but I thought I should tell you anyway. Y'know?

Told you!

I told you I could do an entire show with songs entitled "Tell Me"! Didn't I tell you? Don't tell me I didn't! I remember telling you I could do an entire show of different songs with a single title. You said, "Tell me the title." I said, "That's it!"

The show is available for your wonder & concern at selfhelpradio.net.

I'm telling you, it's true!

I Shouldn't Twitter

No. No, I shouldn't. No matter what Roger Ebert says.

What I am going to do is do Self Help Radio tonight (the theme is "tell me") on WMUL which is at 88.1 on the fm dial. It starts at 9pm, with a new episode of Sugar Substitute on at 10:30pm. Both shows will be archived later, of course, at selfhelpradio.net.

Stop me before I start to tweet!

Whither Tell Me?

I'm very excited by this show. I believe that, for the very first time ever (for me), every song I play on Self Help Radio will have the same title. Yes, there will be nothing but songs entitled "Tell Me" on this week's show. I think that's frickin' awesome.

Also, in case you've been wanting to hear some of the best music that's come out in the last couple of months, you can listen to June's Self Help Radio Extra, which is available at self help radio dot net slash extra dot html. It has twenty-two songs & last seventy five minutes. & best of all, there's not any of that annoying guy who does Self Help Radio talking anywhere on it. Enjoy!

Preface To Tell Me: You Don't Have To Tell Me After All

I never really did understand iambic pentameter. I think people believe that playwrights in the olden days that used iambic pentameter didn't deliberately set out to use iambic pentameter but instead just thought about the world in iambic pentameter. I myself think that's untrue, although I'm probably wrong. Just because I am lazy & don't think a lot about my "writing style" or even proper grammar, punctuation, & spelling doesn't mean that others don't. It seems a very human thing to ascribe one's own weaknesses onto others, probably as a way to self-justify. Ambition, discipline, skill - when one lacks those things (like I do), one chooses instead to ascribe popularity, fame, success, etc., to something like luck rather than genuine hard work & talent. So forget what I said. People who write in iambic pentameter probably mean to do so, following what to them is a serious poetic tradition, & they don't labor with it like I used to in high school, counting the syllables on my fingers. They have trained themselves to think in that form, to better let the words flow naturally & beautifully.

I am always slightly sad that I'll never have the same kind of success (due to my own lack of ambition, discipline & most of all skill) as others, but two things about my fate give me a little comfort. One is that luck can & does play a big part. I know, some people make their own luck, but sometimes that can backfire. The other is that more & more people are successful in smaller & smaller circles. Our society is becoming larger but more compartmentalized, with tiny subsubcultures now freely able to communicate & gather, ignoring or otherwise unaware of the attempts by the corporate world to create & sustain a monoculture with their own stars, musicians, & authorities. Therefore your average "success," though he, she or they can become wealthy, will not likely attain the level of success of a "star" even a decade ago. Everything is more diffuse.

In a way, it's becoming more like it used to be. Before film & music recording, & although word did reach smaller communities about famous actors & musicians, the "stars" of one's life were more than likely the talented people in one's vicinity.

Or maybe not. I'm just thinking out loud on a Sunday morning.

A Punishment Of Lindas

Surely, thought Carl with alarm, they don't expect me to memorize all this! There had to be at least five pages of rules & regulations. Or, with more annoying alliteration, "policies & procedures," as the fat man with the missing bottom teeth had told him in the tiny HR room where he filled out his paperwork. Jesus God, Carl almost muttered to himself, what you have to do to get a job these days.

"See Linda in room 12," the fat man had said, with a slight whistle, as his tongue pushed unopposed air through the gap in his teeth.

He glanced over the pages of company policy while he waited. Linda, of course, made Carl wait. Lindas were always making Carl wait.

Linda Meyer had been his high school guidance counselor, who had told him sadly that he wasn't "college material." He remembered sitting outside her office, missing lunch, just to have her glance over his grades, his SAT scores, his college applications, & then give him dire predictions about his future.

& Linda Smith, the first girl to kiss him, who made him wait for weeks before he could discover her badly padded bra.

& Linda West - who became Linda Strunk after a short-lived marriage - had been the minor Southwestern poet who had been his graduate advisor while he worked on his abortive master's degree. All those hours, waiting for her to finish some phone call with her fiancee, then later her ex-husband or her lawyer, they had worn him out. He had loved Robinson Jeffers so much, now he could barely read his name on a book's spine.

How many Lindas had he waited for his entire life? Linda Murphy, the other Linda Smith, the Linda who ran the dance studio where the Linda he was once married to took her daughter from a previous marriage, the Linda who had the bar who was born in Yorba Linda which is why she was called Linda ("I'm sure glad I wasn't named Yorba!") - his whole life a punishment of Lindas.

Linda Bingham was this Linda's name & she was friendly but curt. With professional perfunctoriness she highlighted the sections of the manual on which he would be tested after his training period. Everything, she said, is in this document, & she directed him to sign several forms.

She stood, asked him to wait, & left the office to get something approved. Linda's office, Carl thought, was tidy & tiny. There were no pictures on her desk, but she did have a corkboard the size of a dinner platter in the far left corner of the room, next to a Ziggy calendar. He didn't want to get up & be caught snooping so he leaned as close as he could from his chair to scan it. The usual cartoons were there - the obligatory Dilbert, of course, plus yellowing Far Side squares - as well as a couple of cards for birthdays or anniversaries. A small rectangle of paper the size of a fortune cookie fortune was the only thing he couldn't read, so he quickly got out of his chair to sneak a look.

It read, simply, "In the Zulu language, the word 'linda' means 'to wait.'"

Carl snapped back to his seat as if drawn by a powerful magnet. He felt like he should have know that fortune cookie fortune fact a long time ago.

& Linda Bingham made him wait twenty-two more minutes until she returned & welcomed him to the company.

The High Cost Of Afternoon Napping

I'm up now! Why do you have to be so loud?

YES I did my radio shows last night. Self Help Radio at 9pm, Dickenbock Electronics at 10:30pm. & I put them up this morning at selfhelpradio.net like I said I would. Then I went back to bed.

Why? Because I was up late & it's a warm & rainy day today. If I had a job, I'd go to work. As it is, it's a nice day for napping.

I'm going back to sleep. Go, go listen to my radio shows. Just, you know, keep it down.

Fifteen Days Later

Self Help Radio returns! A new night! A new time! Same old radio show, though.

Starting tonight at 9pm on WMUL (that's 88.1 on your fm dial), Self Help Radio sits in its summer home for the three hottest months of the year. But if you're not in Huntington, don't worry, the show will be archived by robot pixies tomorrow at selfhelpradio.net. This blog will let you know exactly when it's ready for you.

Excited? Look, at least the show's not going to compete with "Lost." That would've sucked.

Whither At What Cost?

There is (was?) a record store in Dallas (it still exists, though not where I used to visit, & here's its website) which was probably the first giant record store I had ever seen. The owner was a puffy middle-aged man with deep set eyes who seemed to be continually surrounded by skinny "new wave" boys.

An aside: when I was in high school, kids who looked like punks or goths or whatever were called "new wave." The wife, who's a decade younger than I am, pointed out some kids at the park yesterday & lamented that that was what they now call "goth." "Goth," she said, "meant something different in my day." But I apparently pre-dated the "goth" label. Suffice it to say, I was never anything but a kind of shambling mess.

This record store was pretty awesome to my high school mind. What seemed like millions of albums arranged alphabetically, on dozens of tables & on the floor, with cool posters (also for sale) all around the giant room. I didn't know or recognize most of them, of course - I gravitated immediately to the Bowie & Elvis Costello sections.

The biggest problem with the store was that there were no price tags. The owner, who was creepy & obviously gay, would simply stand there & you had to hold up what you wanted & ask the price. It became immediately clear that the amount one paid could be negotiated - if you were cute & flirty to the owner, for example, you'd pay less. As an ugly fat kid, I was at a tremendous disadvantage, although I think I once got a discount on an Elvis Costello import single by joking that I loved him so much I would marry him.

One had to give one's money to the owner, too. No cash register, just handing money & a wallet opened for change. The owner asked a friend of mine once if he could put the change in his pocket for him.

Rumors of course swirled around the alleged pedophile about criminal proceedings, but perhaps he was able to either keep his liaisons secret or he had some self-control. He seems to be doing fine now.

I only went to the store a few times in high school, & rarely returned once I went to college, although I did take my nephew to the place perhaps when he was in high school, which would have been in the mid to late 90s. I can't remember if prices were labelled at that point. But the "bartering" aspect of the store, with my own meager funds as a high school student, eventually made me come to loathe the store, despite its selection.

I just prefer to know what something costs up front.

Preface To At What Cost?: The Price Of Obscurity!

In recent correspondence with Mr. Elmer Comma of the Latin American division of World Canadian Surprises, Mr. Augustine Stained had this to say, painstakingly typed out in a text message when clearly some abbreviation was in order:

To any and all sundry concerned, I must needs forsooth express extreme displeasure at recent events notwithstanding the overall profit margin in relation to certain we must admit ill-conceived and indubitably ultimately self-defeating measures implemented with regard to earthquakes in Chile & Haiti as well as but not necessarily influencing financial disasters concomitant to and created by the current British Petroleum so-called oil leak which stands to affect our bottom line and the earning potential of the myriad programs in the pipe (no pun intended) for the expansion of our Caribbean division, overseen by not only Mr. Comma but also several people in our British Ecuadorian office who have of course been carbon-copied on this text message. In furtherance of both opportunity-seeking as well as damage control I have scheduled for four p.m. today a conference call using only the most inclusive and cutting-edge of technology so please confirm your attendance for the server boys. Yours sincerely, Mr. Augustine Monroe Stained, Senior Vice-President for Catapults and Conviviality, World Canadian Surprises, North American Polar Ice Cap Division. Please forward.

This test message was not read by any of the people to whom it was ostensibly sent; however, the crime fiction author & National Public Radio commentator Mr. Morton Smug spent a full thirteen minutes reading it with undetectable emotion on an episode of "This American Life" to be aired in the fall.

Mr. Augustine Stained continues to write long messages using only his iPhone & possibly a thesaurus, unaware that he was fired two years ago when the offices where he was supposedly working fell into the Arctic Sea, the glacier on which the office was built (on Mr. Stained's recommendation) having sunk overnight. Mr. Stained had begun working from home on that day. He enjoyed it so well that he chose never to return, which saved his life, although the current glacier on which he built his dream house will probably be gone in the next two years.

He in unaware of any lawsuits pending. He is still waiting for the 4pm conference call to begin.

The Stumbling Return

Driving into Huntington, West Virginia, from the east, yesterday at around 4 pm (Eastern Daylight Time), Bob Dylan on the iPod plugged into the car stereo, black clouds in the western sky.

Driving into the upward slanted driveway just to the right of our house (if you're looking at the house, in front), big drops of water like childhood tears beginning to splash inches apart, intermittently, on the windshield, on the roof of the car, on our heads as we got the dogs out & headed indoors.

Close flashes of lightning like mirages appeared in our peripheral vision, in vague reflections on the windows of our house & the empty house across the street, the sudden thunder following loudly, rumbling us & telling us that the lightning was touching ground very near our own.

Emptying the car with an umbrella's handle held between chin & right shoulder, rain getting all over my back, running down my legs, soaking the trunk of the car.

Giving up, calling the mother to tell her we're home safe, three thousand miles travelled in eight days.

Smelling an unusual home, thinking it looks more empty than we remembered it to be, smelling like dust & wood, still familiar & warm, & of course happy to see the cats, which (we are happy & grateful) remember us & greet us immediately.

Back home again, such as it is.

Only Europeans Take Vacations

Americans take "time off."

So it shall be with Self Help Radio. As the only person dumb enough to host it, me, goes to Dallas, Texas, home of the world's biggest hair, to see a nephew get recepted (since he's already married, he's holding a late reception) (I suppose the place one holds a reception is a receptacle) (also, one should really get a receipt if you pay for a reception) there will not be anyone to host the show for the coming week. It's best to let it skip a week than force a reluctant "guest host" to man or woman the helm of what is a clunky drive of a show.

Plus! When Self Help Radio returns, it'll be at a new time, which is Tuesdays at 9pm. The shows should be placed on the web, as long as the show is on Tuesdays, on Wednesdays therefore. Blog entries will be modified accordingly. Accordions will be entered modifyingly. I would like a refill now, barkeep.

See you in a little over a week! xox

The End Of The Argument

That's it! No more arguing. I'm putting a stop to it now.

I have heard all the arguments up to & including the last one, which is a pretty long argument, & which is preserved in audio form at the Self Help Radio website. It's going to take a while to get through it, actually. It's a little confusing.

If you must argue, you must then listen to the show. If you're tired of arguing, you can understand why by listening to show.

No! You can't argue with me. Listen to the show.

It's arguably fun to listen to.

Self Help Radio: Argument Clinic

Tonight - I'm not going to argue about this - Self Help Radio is on for the last time in May 2010 at midnight in Huntington on 88.1 fm WMUL. (Also, while supplies last, you can see a picture of me on that page. I won an award.) I'll avoid another disagreement with you by putting the show up without any further discussion tomorrow on selfhelpradio.net. Let's just keep the peace, all right.

Can I embed a video here? No? I don't know how. So go over here to YouTube to watch Monty Python's classic argument sketch. I still laugh when I see this. It's quite brilliant.

Stupid git.

Not you, I was just quoting the... Oh here we go again!

Preface To Arguments/Whither Arguments?

It's two blog entries in one!

I must confess, I have had my head somewhere up my ass the past couple of days & I completely forgot about this blog. I have been busy, of course, working hard on Self Help Radio... Oh, I can't lie to you. I have been daydreaming about next week when I get to return to Dallas to celebrate my nephew's wedding & then to Austin see old friends. Then the wife went away on some weird retreat with her women friends, & I just sat, daydreamed & listened to music. Meanwhile the days went by & this blog didn't make a peep. It just sat here, waiting for me, weeping to itself.

So I'm sorry.

I really don't have anything to say about the show.

But I will have some things to say about the show after this one, which will be in June, since I'll be away in Texas for a week.

We're not going to argue about this, are we?

& It Happened

What happened? Self Help Radio happened!

Last night, barely noticed & frankly barely noticeable, Self Help Radio peeked through the cracks to ask the question "What happened?" & that's all that happened. Self Help Radio happened.

Don't believe it? You can listen to the evidence right in front of your ears at selfhelpradio.net. It's convincing. & damning.

Fits Night Out

It so happened that Fits had a night out. It also happened that Fits found himself for no good reason having a night out in Huntington, West Virginia. It happened to be the case that Huntington doesn't really have much of what one might call a "night life." Fits even happened to notice that a popular sports bar closed before midnight. How, he thought to himself, did such things happen? He could have guessed the answer: that's how things happened in Huntington!

So he happened to turn on the radio. The dial happened to be tuned to 88.1, which happened to be, in the city of Huntington, WMUL fm. As it happened to be midnight on a Monday, Fits happened to catch the radio show "Self Help Radio," which happened that evening to have the theme "What Happened?" Since Fits did not now what happened, he listened.

As it happened, someone interrupted Fits & he missed some of the program. Yet he happened to hear the host says something about archiving the show later on selfhelpradio.net. It was fortunate he heard it! If that had not happened, he would not have heard the entire show.

& that's how Fits night out happened. Or has it happened yet?

Whither What Happened?

Do you love the question "whatever happened to?" Like, for example, say you're a fan of some obscure television show or movie, & you start thinking, whatever happened to that dude who played the dude that everyone was all like, "Duuuude" when he came in the room? I know a few actors & actresses leave the industry for a particular reason - if they're young, sometimes it's school - sometimes it's for family - but a lot of times it's because of drugs - & a lot of the time it's because their stars just fell.

Not that there aren't resurrections. Some people get magically saved, like Neil Patrick Harris. But others just - they just disappear. It's the nature of the thing.

Some stay in Hollywood, living (one assumes) on the money they happily saved when they had "hit" television shows or whatever. Some apparently tour with shows, appearing in small towns (like Huntington) with vehicles written for them or adapted from current or classic Broadway plays. Some of these, by the way, are just fucking weird. Like I saw a flyer at the university late last year for this:"Thank You For Asking", a play about the life of Lucille Ball - directed by her daughter.

I am assuming people went. After all, there are a lot of old people in this part of the world. It does have quite the whiff of desperation about it, though, doesn't it? Like there wasn't even enough material to make a Lifetime movie about Lucille Ball.

But if you're like me, you're occasionally fascinated to find out someone who was only in your peripheral vision is still alive & sometimes still working in the biz. You may even be saddened or titillated to discover they've met a tragic end. Also, perhaps, you have a sense of closure - after all, their Hollywood story is over. Maybe.

I do sometimes imagine I was slightly more famous a long time ago - I was the smart-ass fat kid in a Nickelodeon comedy of the early nineties who was always humiliated by the geeky protagonist, & I left the show for a bit part in one of the "Home Alone" films (probably the ninth) which my agent imagined would lead me to better roles. Instead, I couldn't get a job so I went back to school, got involved with college radio, & now, married & forgotten, I do a minor radio show in a small town in obscurity. I'm just waiting for the folks at VH1 to give me a call.

Preface To What Happened?: What Prefaced?

"Preface" is one of the those words, like "ascertain," that I read & knew the meaning of long before I heard it spoken, so when I myself first spoke it, I pronounced it wrong. (Yes, I said pre-face, not prefiss.) The same with "metropolis," now that I think about it (met-ro-pol-is, not me-trop-o-lis). Or "reprise," which I pronounced like in "reprisal." (I still do, in my head.) That's the astonishing thing about reading - though you're encouraged to look words up, but many times you simply suss meanings from context &, before you know it, you've added a word to your own vocabulary that "sounds" like it "sounds" in your head & whose "formal" meaning you've never actually cracked a dictionary to read. I remember the above words because someone corrected me, just like, recently, I corrected some kid at the radio station who referred to a band (it was the La's) as "the L-A's" (like you'd shorten Los Angeles) simply because no one had ever said their name out loud to him. Who knows how many words I learned that way?

I know I am not using the word "preface" entirely correctly, because of course a preface is technically an introduction to a book or other written work, not a radio show. I beg your indulgence. I also am grateful you haven't called me on it in - what - eight hundred some odd blog posts? Your restraint is appreciated. Or are you just ignoring me? You know who also ignores me? Little robots.

In fact, I have more to say about little robots but it's time to walk to doggins. Can we talk about little robots some more later? Or should I preface that with a more general discussion about robots of all sizes?

How To Successfully Rescue A Cat In This Day & Age

Do you know how you constantly see posters people put up for missing pets? They're so heart-breaking, & I can't even imagine what the statistics are about animals lost versus animals found. I find myself so saddened by each new flyer.

About a week ago, a neighbor went around & put a flyer in everyone's mailboxes (at least on our street) for this fellow:



The flyer said he was a male Maine Coon. He certainly is a handsome fellow, yes?

Last night, after my wife had worked all day & I had been sitting around all day listening to music & gaining weight, & specifically after dinner, I said to the wife, "I missed you today. Why don't we take the dogs out for a walk before it gets too dark & you can tell me extremely interesting stories of your academic world." Maybe I didn't say that last part, but I think that's what she heard, because that's what happened.

At the end of the walk, night already fallen, I saw a tiny cat on the fence of someone's house, & said hello to it, like I do. I didn't recognize it from the flyer, but the wife did. She made me drag the boys home (which was a chore, because of course they wanted to be with their mother, & oh boy a cat!) & try to find the flyer. We put the little kit in a cat carrier & I found the craigslist entry while she walked up the street & stole a flyer from an empty house's mailbox.

We were pretty sure it was Teddy, the cat in the flyer, but we called the number & we responded to the craigslist listing. Since the story has a happy ending, you know the cat made its way home, although the owner this afternoon (she was out of town last night) was still skeptical until she saw him. Teddy himself stayed in our guest room & availed himself of room service, as he was very hungry from being out in the world for over a week.

So how do you successfully rescue a cat in this day & age? Pay attention to the flyers! Pay attention to strays! Be more like my wife, not like me - don't just say hello to neighborhood cats, but look them in the eye & say, "Didn't I see your picture on a telephone pole?"

The owner of Teddy wanted to give a reward, but I told her the only reward we wanted was to make sure he stayed indoors. I told her if we found him out & about again, we'd keep him. He was a very sweet little cat.

I'm glad he's home.

The Case Of The Inflammable Pajamas!

If you want to solve this case, just remember, the words "inflammable" & "flammable" mean the same thing!

The clues are sprinkled all over this week's episode of Self Help Radio with some extra clues kinda shoved difficultly into this week's episode of Sugar Substitute. Sure, the shows purport to be parts 27 & 28 of the "Indiepop A To Z" series but surely you know that things aren't always what they seem!

You can solve the crime in no time (well, ninety minutes each) by listening to either show exclusively at selfhelpradio.net. Do it soon! Or else the bad guys get away with it!

But What If I Can't SEE Tonight?

Y'see, I had an eye exam today. I am getting older & it's getting hard to read when I am in my bed at night. So I went & during the exam, my eyes were hella dilated. If the wife hadn't brought me some sunglasses, I don't think I could've made it home in the bright afternoon sun.

It's better now, though, so I don't know what I was worried about. I do a radio show at night! It's dark! Dilated pupils are perfect for that.

Did I say tonight? I'd better get crackin'! Midnight, 12 o'clock am, WMUL, 88.1 fm in Huntington. Will you miss it? Don't worry! It'll be archived on selfhelpradio.net. I promise.

Whither Indiepop A To Z # 27?

Also, since Sugar Substitute will be following, I'll be doing Indiepop A To Z # 28.

But let's talk today about motherfuckers. Because, according to my Ziggy desk calendar, that's what today is. That Ziggy, he's so outrageous. I just think, wow, that's weird, because you'd think, with the number of motherfuckers you meet all the time, that every day is Motherfucker's Day.

I can see, however, that some people might be offended by this. Bad Ziggy! Still, they might also be offended by the full story of Anna Jarvis, the West Virginian who founded Mother's Day, who came to hate how people celebrated it. (You know, like they celebrate every holiday.)

As for the indiepop stuff, look. I started it, I'll try to finish it. At least we're in the Fs. It could be worse. We could be stretching this out longer than it should be stretched out. A show every other year. Now there's a smallish chance it may one day be finished. Probably not, but still.

Onward.

Preface To Indiepop A To Z # 27: OH NO NOT AGAIN

Oh yes yet again!

Going to Columbus now... We'll talk tomorrow.

I've Been To Lonelier Parties

Kristin stumbled over cracked concrete. She smoothed her skirt mechanically with her free hand, the cigarette in the other letting some of its ash fall. Behind her, she heard Alex do nearly the same thing - only in heels.

"Where the fuck does he live?" Alex said.

The street was dark, the lights strangely unlit though it was past dusk, early evening. Clouds had rolled in but decided to stay. Last night the moon was almost full, & the summer stars had been weirdly bright.

"That's his SUV," she said, though she didn't point. Or Alex couldn't see if she had.

They could hear laughter & chatter on a dark nearby porch. The plastic creaking of a cooler opening, followed by the rustling of wet ice as a bottle was lifted out, gave clues to the women though they still couldn't see anything or anyone.

"Someone didn't pay their bills," Alex muttered.

"I think they just haven't turned on any lights," said Kristin.

They heard the sounds of some Eagles' greatest hits record as someone opened a door, & Kristin turned to Alex & said, "Of course they're listening to that shit."

"Snob," laughed Alex, as she stood side-to-side with Kristin at the top of the sidewalk.

"Kristin!" a voice called out, & David was soon in front of them, holding a sweaty beer, pleased to meet Alex, offering her a damp hand.

The Eagles were replaced over time with Hall & Oates, or perhaps a band doing Hall & Oates covers, because the lead singer was a woman. Alex had been sitting on the back porch watching a small group start a fire, which they stood around, watching. Occasionally an insect zapped itself to death in unearthly blue at the far end of the porch, but Alex had gotten used to that sound. She had said something to someone earlier about wishing she had not quit smoking.

Kristin said, "Hey."

Alex said, "Hey."

Kristin said, "Are you ready to go?"

Alex said, "You want to go already?"

Kristin said, "Well, it's nearly one. Didn't you have that brunch thing?"

"I don't feel like I drank anything at all." She felt for the beer bottle at her side, shook it to remind herself it was empty.

"Hey," Kristin said, "you missed the whole porn party thing."

"What porn party thing?"

"David's friend George has a video camera," Kristin said. "He has apparently been visiting these web sites that are supposed to be like amateur porn filmed on parties. He spent the night trying to get people to have sex on camera."

"Oh no."

"He kept coming up to women & asking us to pretend it was Mardi Gras."

"Good lord."

Kristin laughed. "Someone took his camera away. Then they videotaped him throwing up in the bushes outside."

"Ha ha," Alex said.

"Do you mind," Kristin asked, "if I have one more cigarette before we go?"

"Sure," said Alex, & Kristin went inside again.

A sudden light in the corner of the backyard was shone on a balding, pudgy guy with a ponytail urinating by the back fence. The light came from a video camera. The handful of people in the backyard burst into laughter.

"Fuck you!" said George. "Fuck all y'all!"

The Secrets Of The Postal Service Revealed!

I could send it in a letter to you, but I'd rather play it on the radio if you don't mind. Tonight! An entire Self Help Radio dedicate to women named Brown. Not performing, but, rather, in song. Jenny Brown, Lucy Brown, Bonnie Brown, Fanny Brown, even sweet Georgia Brown. Miss Brown, they'd say, to you. Doesn't that sound cool? It is!

Tonight, as I've said, at midnight sharp, on 88.1 fm WMUL in Huntington; archived later on selfhelpradio.net. If you name is Miss Brown - or even Mrs. Brown - the show is dedicated to you!

Whither The Lovely Miss Brown?

I once heard a story about a martial arts master who would tour high school auditoriums (auditoria?) & provide demonstrations to the students of the arts of self-defense &, if the audience were perhaps older, in meditation & the Eastern philosophies which provided the underlying reasons for entering into the discipline in the first place. The sinister secret was that the reason this martial arts master did what he did, going to elementary, middle, & high schools to throw children around, was because he was a convicted pedophile, & in fact (this was in the days before sex-offender databases), most of the time he was around the children it was quite illegal & could have gotten him thrown back into jail, if the authorities knew he was embracing children to "teach" them how to defend themselves. The fact was, this man was not trying to help the children at all; he would use the process to select his next victim, & in fact gain their trust so he could abuse them later.

I heard another story about him in which he travelled & taught not because he was a pervert, but because he had had a child who had been attacked & killed by a mugger or a bully & he regretted not teaching his child how to fight off such an attack because, you know, he wanted his child to study & become a doctor or lawyer or something "better" than he was. This story ends with the martial arts master by sheer coincidence teaching the selfsame bully who had killed his child &, recognizing him, breaking his neck on the spot. He goes to jail, maybe even gets the death penalty, but he has his revenge.

Both versions of the story appear to satisfy some lurid desire in the teller (&, the teller hopes, the listener) to either reiterate how vulnerable our children are or to satisfy our sense of revenge &/or irony. In both cases, though, the story is most definitively false, based on some banal backstory, embellished to have a point, be it shock value or a storyline. I happen to know that backstory, which goes like this:

There was a martial arts master in a medium-sized suburb who had a small strip mall "academy" & who would occasionally visit nearby middle schools & do a canned, dull demonstration, which mainly consisted on him throwing around his assistant. The long-suffering assistant was also his mistress, who had somehow fallen for him & his corny charisma, & on whom he took out his frustrations, & for whom he promised he'd leave his wife but never would. At one school, a teacher who had been reading contemporary accounts of child abuse & devil worship in child care centers, fueled by the false-memory-syndrome debacle, became convinced that the martial arts master, who, as I said, would occasionally talk about the Tao or perhaps Zen, was a Satanist & imagined that he was "collecting" children for devious rituals, & began to enlist parents in her concern. The martial arts master, unable to prove that he wasn't a Satanist, lost his school gigs, & eventually his students at his "academy" disappeared. He was fortunate to avoid criminal charges & jail time, but of course his marriage was broken & even his assistant left him, both women in his life unsure whether this man whom they thought they knew was really a pedophile. He began to drink & spent the rest of his lonely life working in a convenience store in a part of town nowhere near a school.

Okay, I confess I don't know if that's the real story, but I like it better than the first two.

Preface To The Lovely Miss Brown: Have I Ever Known A Miss Brown?

I don't think I have. I knew a few dudes named Brown in high school, but I don't think I knew a girl named Brown.

This is weird, because, according to the wikipedia, "According to the 1990 United States Census, Brown is the fifth most common family name in the United States... essentially identical in frequency to Jones." & I've known a couple of women whose last name was Jones.

I will research famous Miss Browns for the show. In the meantime, if you're a woman I know whose surname is Brown & I've forgotten about you, do let me know. I'll dedicate the show to you.

I'm a little weirded out by this - I just went through my old email - I apparently don't know any women whose last name is Brown.

I am going to go out in the rain right now to meet some!

The Untimely Cat Cartoon Intervention

For this particular animated feature, Gus intended to subvert the whole cat vs. dog paradigm. Not a cat which outsmarted a dog - that had happened thousands of times - but a cat ]who was simply physically stronger than a dog. & not a giant cat versus a tiny dog, no; a normal sized tomcat versus your average cartoon bulldog. It would be unexpected & hilarious.

Gus' son, also named Gus, who often lent his voice to his father's cartoons, disagreed. "I don't understand, papa," he said, "why is the cat strong?"

"He's just strong," said the father.

"Does he eat spinach like Popeye?" asked little Gus.

"No, he's just strong."

The youngster couldn't wrap his brain around it. "Does he exercise? Does he take a pill? Did he find a genie? Is he magic? Is he a cat from another planet? Is he a cat from the future?"

"No, no, no," the older Gus tried to explain. "He just happens to be stronger than the dog. It's just how he's built. Have you ever known someone who, even if he is small, he's still stronger than a bigger guy?"

Young Gus thought about & said, "I guess so."

"This cat is like that! He just happens to be stronger than most other cats!"

"But even stronger than a dog?"

Gus nodded happily. "Yes!" he said. "That's what makes it funny!"

"But," said his son, "it doesn't make any sense!"

Gus thought about that sentence for a long time, & wondered at what age - if it happened at all - children understood absurdity. & then he rewrote the cat versus dog cartoon so the weaker cat outsmarted the beastly dog.

& his son Gus laughed & laughed.

Officious; Meddlesome; Prying

That's my favorite definition of "busy": officious; meddlesome; prying. It really only survives in the phrase "busy body."

My second favorite definition of "busy" is: ornate, disparate, or clashing in design or colors; cluttered with small, unharmonious details; fussy.

Fussy! If there's one thing Self Help Radio is, it's fussy.

Don't believe me? You can't be too busy to listen to last night's Self Help Radio show, which had the theme "busy busy busy!"

Go to selfhelpradio.net & download it. Listen to it when you get a break from your busy day. Or while you're doing busy work. Or if you're just trying to look busy.

A Busy Night Tonight

You know, because I have a radio show to do. Might you take time out of your busy night to listen? It'll happen at midnight here in Huntington on 88.1 fm WMUL. Self Help Radio starts then; Sugar Substitute starts at 1:30. I get busy on both programs.

Too busy? Then please take some time out of your busy week to visit selfhelpradio.net where I will archive the program after it's done, probably tomorrow afternoon. You can then listen to it anywhere! & while you're on-the-go!

Self Help Radio - butting into busy lives since 2002.

Whither Busy Busy Busy?

Eeep! I don't know what to write in this entry! I've been staring at a blank screen for too long! I am writing things like "eeep!" I am also thinking of rhymes for "busy"! There aren't many, actually: dizzy izzy lizzy tizzy. Unless you want to include hip-hop terms, like fo-schnizzy.

Oh, there's also citrusy. Is that a word? It's a delicious word! Maybe it counts as a "close rhyme."

Then there are words that look like they should rhyme with busy but don't: jealousy, lousy, mousy. I mean, they end with "usy" don't they? But they don't rhyme. Not even with each other! Now my brain hurts.

I love close rhymes, by the way. I think they're clever. Some folks, though, hate them & don't think they're rhymes at all. Fuck 'em, I say. If it sounds like it rhymes, it feels like it rhymes, it motherfucking rhymes.

I did have a problem this week, while trying to think of "busy" songs, of accidentally thinking of "dizzy" songs. Like the song "Dizzy" by Throwing Muses. I could have sworn the song went "busy busy busy in my head."

Here's a video of Throwing Muses performing that song live: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhlwhorM1uA.

Did that answer the question posed above? Was it supposed to?

Preface To Busy Busy Busy: Too Busy To Write In The Blog

Is it ironic that the week before the busy show is a busy one?

For example, yesterday, Friday, I travelled over four hundred miles, most of them in Ohio. If that's not busy, I don't know what is.

& on Thursday, I emceed a local Earth Day event. I'd like to tell stories about it but I'll wait until I'm a safe distance away.

On Wednesday, I did something I am ashamed of. I think I did it more than once. I also think that it wasn't until I did it more than once that I was ashamed.

On Tuesday, I slept because I was up late Monday doing a radio show. That's also something I am ashamed of.

I was busy on Monday day & Sunday, too, but the theme wasn't officially "busy busy busy" so it doesn't count anymore.

Today? I was too busy even to write in this blog. Until. Wait. I did!

Into The Wilds

I'm going to The Wilds today.

What is The Wilds? "The Wilds is one of the largest & most innovative wildlife conservation centers in the world. Located on nearly 10,000 acres in southeast Ohio, it is home to rare & endangered species from around the world living in natural, open-range habitat, as well as home to hundreds of indigenous species. In addition to innovative, in-depth science & education programs, the Wilds offers guided experiences to the public on selected days May through October."

I have a feeling that the old rhinoceros there will think I'm deliberately mocking him. Just by the way I look. & then he'll charge!

4/19 Is Mushroom Code

(I am reprinting this from the alerts I send to my Facebook fans. Do YOU want to be a fan of Self Help Radio on Facebook? You can do that by clicking here!)

So last night, someone called & said to me, "Oh wow! I can't believe you're doing a MUSHROOM show on 4/20!" I confessed it was entirely coincidental, which disappointed the caller, but the more I think about it, even though my show is on at midnight, which is technically the Tuesday, *I* still think it's Monday. I say "Monday nights at midnight." So I didn't do a mushroom show on 4/20 - I did it on 4/19.

Which, as everyone knows, is police code for "fat naked man talking to himself at bus stop in deserted neighborhood." Which is perfect for Self Help Radio!

The show has sprouted virtually overnight at selfhelpradio.net. The playlist is below. It's up to you to decide which mushroom songs are poisonous & which are safe to listen to. I am not a mycophagist.

Thanks for listening!

I Read That I Recited

Do you remember haikus? I used to read haikus from listeners on Self Help Radio many moons ago. I would also archive them here, on this blog. For example, here are the haikus from my "sleepy" show nearly four years ago. Four years ago! I'm old.

The reason I bring up haikus is that, on tonight's show, which is about mushrooms, John Cage will read a haiku about mushrooms. It's a recording of course. He's long since passed into that avant-garde silence called death. I will not be trying to impersonate John Cage on the radio. I can barely impersonate a literate fellow.

What's that? Tonight's show? Yes! Self Help Radio will be on at its regular time, midnight, here in Huntington, on 88.1 fm WMUL, & of course archived later at selfhelpradio.net.

Only one haiku per toadstool, though.

Whither Mushrooms?

Does it bother you that the toad - the TOAD! - is the only animal in the animal kingdom that gets its own stool? THE TOAD!

Sure, elephants can sit anywhere they damn well please, & most scary carnivores get offered whatever seat is available by virtue of the fact that seats empty when they arrives. Yet it is the lowly toad - THE TOAD! - who, over & above all the fauna, gets a designated place to sit. It is an outrage!

Look at it from the point of view of the fungus as well. The mushroom - the toadstool oh how I hate to use that word - is merely the outward part of the fungus, used to send spores out for reproduction. The real action is happening below the ground. You know as well as I how attention-shy most fungi are, but still - imagine if one part of you were designated a "fly lounger" or a "mouse chair" - when really it was your right temple, or perhaps your left elbow - & that was all people talked about in regards to your anatomy - wouldn't that grate? Would you not feel chagrin?

The modest fungus must burn with embarrassment & resentment when a part of it is called a "toadstool."

Though I confess it must be worse when the toads use the toadstool as a stool.

What is the fungus to do? Who made the decision to partition a part of itself & designate it, not just as a general sitting place for smaller forest creatures, but for the much-despised toad - THE TOAD! - who did this? Who? Who?

The answer is likely lost, like many other injustices, in the haze of time & its shrouded past.

Self Help Radio seeks vindication for the poor fungus whose mushrooms got labelled toadstools.

I mean, really, THE TOAD!?!

Preface To Mushrooms: Pizza?

Am I showing my old age when, at the mention of "mushrooms," the first thing I think about is pizza & not psychedelic drugs?

But it's true, nowadays eating good food trumps heady hallucinatory experiences. Good food is also what's in the forefront of my mind when vacations loom. I have to go to my nephew's wedding reception in a month &, while I'm happy for the little doofus, I will be happier to be in Dallas to eat at my favorite Ethiopian restaurant. Interestingly, I don't think they use mushrooms in Ethiopian food.

In fact, the wife & I are traveling to Columbus next week to go to delicious vegan restaurants there, & especially to this place, which is an amazing vegan bakery.

Well! All this talk about food is reminding me to eat lunch. Ciao for now!

P.S. Like melons last weeks, mushrooms are another food I don't much like. What the hell is wrong with me?

That One Friday Moment

"Did you drop this banjo?" the not-well girl said to the sleep-deprived man, pointing at a paper airplane on the pavement.

The sleep-deprived man did not hear her, but he did see her. He was convinced he was walking down a street in a dream. As a rule, he was sure he heard no sound in his dreams, believing instead that everyone in his dreams communicated telepathically, & because of his sleep-deprived state, his brain shut off his sonic comprehension when it perceived the not-well girl in front of him was moving her lips. Speaking! In a dream! It didn't happen.

The not-well girl seemed to be having trouble staying upright, but despite her swaying, she managed to stay vertical. While she wasn't exactly having hallucinations, it was true that her vision was impaired, & in addition to that, circuits misfiring in her brain were confusing words. She held up a hand to the sleep-deprived man & said, "I promise, no one has ever repainted the salt & pepper shakers!"

The sleep-deprived man has recently suffered some sort of major loss - a job, perhaps, or a fond relative - & found himself unable to close his eyes. Like drink, lack of sleep kept him intoxicated & forgetful. The not-well girl did not look like she was doing very well, & despite her pitiful silence, she seemed emphatic in her miming. He moved closer to her just as she began a collapse.

He fell with her.

"It's like watching paint peel!" she screamed as they fell to the sidewalk. The sleep-deprived man hit his head on a rusty bolt securing a public trash receptacle to the concrete, & it cut into his skull so that a trickle of blood began to roll down the right side of his head & onto his ear.

Three bystanders had gathered around the sprawled pair, the sleep-deprived man under the not-well girl, the one stone-still with eyes wide open, the other frail & twitching, pale as morning light. Cell phones were out & the passers-by who didn't want to get involved still managed to slow their pace & have a look.

The sleep-deprived man thought he saw the entire sky about to come down on him, but he felt, at that moment, that he perhaps deserved it, & with the pressure on his chest he thought was his body full of righteous adrenalin, he silently bade it come.

The not-well girl, who had no idea what was happening to her, still managed to understand that a kindness had been done to her, & she turned her thin face to stare directly at the sleep-deprived man's bloody ear. "I have done fruitful things," she said gratefully.

Ripe Melons On The Vine

It's too bad the word "melon" has naughty connotations. Every time I say it I feel my inner Benny Hill coming out.

(Benny Hill died a lonely death, in a chair, in front of a television. I need to read a biography of him, because I am a little obsessed with how lonesome his life was.)

But I managed not to mention "melons" in the sense of "women's breasts" at all on last night's Self Help Radio. Which means it is therefore fun for the whole family. Hey! & if you want to make your family listen to it, it's on the vine at selfhelpradio.net!

Just watch where you spit those seeds!

Sleepiest Of Sleepies

I've been eating nothing but melons for an entire week & boy are my teeth tired. Do you know the saying "Too many melons makes Mark a cranky case?" No? That's weird, I hear it all the time amongst my melonheaded friends. In any event, I am not sure there's enough to sustain us, even on all these melons, but I have learned to spit watermelon seeds very, very far.

Did you know that the watermelon was cultivated in China over a thousand years ago? But the Vietnamese claim they had the watermelon before the Chinese. Indeed, they have a legend about Prince Mai An Tiêm, who was an adopted son of one of the Hùng Kings (as opposed, you know, to the Wel Hùng Kings). Says the Wikipedia, "When the prince was exiled unjustly to an island, he was told that if he could survive for six months, he would be allowed to return. When he prayed for guidance, a bird flew past & dropped a seed. He cultivated the seed & called its fruit western melon, because the birds who ate it flew from the west." But wait! Doesn't that mean the bird (is "dropped a seed" a metaphor for pooping?) got the seed from somewhere? Like Africa, where it is thought watermelons originated?

That's neither here nor there, of course, as I am not a prince nor am I related to the Hùng Kings, & I think my skin is turning orange from all the melon I've consumed. Do listen to me regurgitate all the melons have taught me this week tonight on Self Help Radio, which will air at midnight on 88.1 fm WMUL & then later it'll be archived at selfhelpradio.net. & from tiny seeds shall fat melons grow!

Whither Melons?

You: Yeah, what's up with that? You don't even like melons!

Me: How... How did you know that?

You: You're very vehement in your dislike of melons. I'm sure you've mentioned it many times before.

Me: I have?

You: Doesn't that sound like something you'd do?

Me: I don't have to like the subject I pick for the show. I did a show about butchers...

You: Just to make people sick about eating meat.

Me: That's not true!

You: Are you saying you don't have an agenda?

Me: Oh, I'm sure that there are things I feel strongly about which I...

You: I bet you don't even like watermelon gum.

Me: Actually, the "melon" taste of candy is different from the taste of the fruit which...

You: I once saw you spit out a Jolly Rancher.

Me: That's a weird thing to say.

You: I think you're trying to curry some kind of favor with your wife or something.

Me: What?

You: She's always eating some kind of melon.

Me: But she doesn't even listen to the show!

You: You are a hypocrite.

Me: Me?

You: Eat this melon.

Me: No! No! I won't!

You: It's sweet & juicy & very, very ripe.

Me: No! I don't like melons!

You: You must eat this melon!

Me: Can't I just play a song about it instead?

Preface To Melons: No, Not That Kind Of Melon

If one wants one's mind cleared up about difficult definitions, one could do worse than to visit the Urban Dictionary. Here, for example, are five of its entries for the word "melon."

1. n. cranium, skull, brain case, brain box
I slipped my hat onto my melon today in hopes of keeping my scalp from getting sunburned.

2. n. A single breast. See melons.
One melon was larger than the other.

3. n. someone stupid or someone performing an activity with seemingly no intelligence; shortened form of "melonhead"
He just ran into that fence. He's a melon!

4. n. A round & juicy fruit that is usually about the size of a football. It is commonly sliced up & de-seeded before serving. There are quite a few variants of the fruit including the popular watermelon.
Might there be some watermelon in your fridge?

5. v. The act of smacking another's forehead as a sign & act of derision.
That wicker fool done gone swiped my pewter so I gone & laid a melon on him.

Definition number 4, of course, is the one Self Help Radio will be focussing on & of course the most common use. But wow! I totally forgot about calling one's head a melon! Bugs Bunny would be mad at me.

& definition number 2 is inappropriate for the radio.

Courtesy Call

When Mr. Phobe got his courtesy call at six o'clock in the morning, he let his eyes slowly adjust to the blue darkness in his room before edging off the bed & trying to remember where the bathroom was. Every hotel had a slightly different arrangement, & he was always in a different hotel. He had forty-minutes for a shower & all his other morning ablutions, & then he would have to go outside, determine what city he had found himself in, & begin his day.

As he was shaving, he remembered something strange about the courtesy call. His mind was always foggy up until he shaved; he believed it came into focus so he wouldn't slash his throat or something similar, since he used a straight razor. Always had, just like his father always had. & the use of the straight razor did focus his mind, woke him up actually, much as folks who needed a cup of coffee used the caffeine to sharpen their thoughts. He actually sharpened his thoughts with a steel blade. He said that aloud to himself & chuckled.

Was it something the woman said in the courtesy call? Usually it's a short sentence, something like, "Mr. Phobe, this is your courtesy call, it's six o'clock in the morning." The bigger chains had automated the process, which is why he tended to favor smaller hotels, or bed & breakfasts if he could find one. This morning, it had been a peculiar female voice - therefore it wasn't a recording - but she hadn't stuck to the script, she had said something unusual. What had it been?

He knew a thought like this would torture him for the rest of the day if he allowed it to. After he had dressed, he went downstairs to the small breakfast nook in this small hotel & got hot water for his tea. He saw an idle hotel worker & asked him pleasantly who made the courtesy calls in the morning. But the worker was unhelpful, even a little insolent, so Mr. Phobe left unsatisfied, even a little embarrassed to have asked. Yet he knew the unclear recollection would gnaw on him for the rest of the day, & he went to the front desk.

"Good morning, sir," said the young lady there.

"Good morning, young lady," said Mr. Phobe. "I have what might be an odd question. Who makes the courtesy calls in the morning?"

"Courtesy calls?" she asked with a smile.

"Yes," he said, "the courtesy call, to wake me up in the morning."

"Oh," she said, shaking off the confusion, "we don't call those courtesy calls. We call them 'wake-up calls.'"

Mr. Phobe didn't know how to respond.

"A courtesy call," the young lady at the front desk went on, "is what telemarketers commonly call their solicitations, to sugar-coat or otherwise obscure their intrusions. There's also a diplomatic courtesy call, which is probably where telemarketers & other salespeople got the term. But of course the 'courtesy call' in the telemarketer sense is the exact opposite of courtesy. It is, in fact, incredibly discourteous, often made at hours when one wants most to be with family or to relax. The calls made for the purpose of getting the consumer's money, not to help them in any way."

Mr. Phobe could not think of any sort of reply. He said, "Thank you," & turned away.

But now he had a bigger problem. He had been calling his wake-up calls "courtesy calls" nearly his entire life. What exactly, then, were his wake-up calls?

When LIKE Turns To DISLIKE!

That doesn't sound too threatening, does it? Not like when LOVE turns to HATE! That sounds awful!

If you like Self Help Radio, I hope that this week's show, called "What I Like," doesn't make you dislike it. However, if you dislike Self Help Radio - & seriously, who could blame you? - maybe this show will make you like it. Probably not, but hobos spring eternal.

It's in its usual place (the show, not the hobo) (didn't Emily Dickinson say that hobos are the things with feathers? maybe she meant after being run out of town with tar & stuff) which is selfhelpradio.net. I would like it if you listened to it. I would like it more if you liked it.

However - it may soon turn to DISLIKE - so listen fast!

(How does one listen fast?)

The Difference Between 'I Like' & 'I Love'

Is there one?

Perhaps 'I Like' is meant to mean that you spend a great deal of time & attention on the object of your liking, but 'I Love' means you have something like an obsession. For example, "I like cheese & I like potatoes, but I love cheese fries!"

Not to imply that there needs to be a correlation between the likes & loves. Another example could be, "I like traveling to Ohio but I love getting Swedish massages!"

In any event, strong feelings or no, there will be many things listed that are liked on tonight's Self Help Radio. It will air at midnight in Huntington, West Virginia, on 88.1 fm WMUL, & then will be placed on a dusty shelf for you to stare at on the Self Help Radio website.

Perhaps many secrets will be revealed! Or perhaps further confirmation of my utter dorkiness will be provided. Either way, I hope you listen.

Whither What I Like?

Daniel Falsename of Winner Lakes, West Oregonia writes,

Dear Self Help Radio,
I see that your upcoming show is entitled "what I like." This disturbs me. I'll tell you why.
I and my grandmother Sam, who doesn't like your show because she can't understand what a radio is, we always assumed that whatever you played on the show was what you liked. I understand that other deejays at commercial radio stations have to play things that they don't like, but never Self Help Radio!
But if you now are presenting a show called "what I like," what am I and my grandmother Sam to think except that everything previously had been not at all what you like, and now you are finally, after forty years on the air, playing what you like.
Can that be? If so, what am I and my grandmother Sam to do?
Yours etc.
Daniel Falsename

Thanks for the letter, Daniel. I understand your concern but unfortunately, you're partially correct. As you might have read in The Wall Street Journal or perhaps Auto Trader, Self Help Radio, formerly a cooperative entity owned by all its employee, has been acquired by a wealthy multinational based on Easter Island (or rather a houseboat floating somewhere nearby - apparently the multinational is really creeped out by the big head statues) & the former host, Gary, has been replaced by a new host, Gary (me). To distinguish myself from the previous Gary, I am beginning my tenure on the series by stating obviously what I like. After that, I will be forced to play what the multinational likes.

Remember! The old Self Help Radio answered your letters! The new one, well, maybe not so much.

Preface To What I Like: The Athens Of Ohio

Do you like that expression? Some people describe some cities as other cities. For example, because of the increasing number of movies & television shows being shot there, some might call Vancouver "the Hollywood of Canada." Or because of its horrible weather, Molly Ivins (I think) once called Houston "the Calcutta of the Western World." It's part of the human love affair with analogies.

Since it was known as the birthplace of democracy & science, among other things, Athens is always well-regarded (at least among people who like democracy & science, although revisionists who hate the implication "white people" {if you can even call them that twenty-five thousand years ago} inventing such things somehow makes them "better" than other races {see my Carl Sagan quote below})& people love to call a place "the Athens of whatever."

WIkipedia lists nineteen cities called Athens in the United States, although there are probably more. The most famous is Athens, Georgia, where a lot of bands in the "alternative" music spectrum have come from & continues to come from. Today I am traveling for the first time to Athens, Ohio, also a college town but one unlike Huntington, which is nearly two & a half times larger, but which doesn't appear to have nearly (if any) of the common appurtenances of college towns. Marshall University is weird like that.

Of course, "the Athens of Ohio" means something different than "Athens, Ohio." But surely they named it that, though, in the hopes that the name would somehow make Athens, Ohio, the "Athens of the United States." Or at least of Ohio.

NOTE:
Here's a Carl Sagan quote that will piss off racist scum & hopefully assuage the resentment of insecure folks not of a "Greek" or "Western" heritage about the idea that democracy & science were invented in Athens (this is from "Cosmos"):

"China and India and Mesoamerica would, I think, have tumbled to science too, if only they had been given a little more time. Cultures do not develop with identical rhythms or evolve in lockstep. They arrive at different times and progress at different rates. The scientific world view works so well, explains so much and resonates so harmoniously with the most advanced parts of our brains that in time, I think, virtually every culture on the Earth, left to its own devices, would have discovered science. Some culture had to be first. As it turned out, Ionia was the place where science was born."

Whoa

I can't think of anything to write today. I think my mind is just a little blank. I mowed the lawn, I did some work for the radio station & I have to forage for my own food tonight because the wife has to do something with academics or something. I don't really know because I wasn't really listening because I've learned to tune out.

I was reading about this writer named Gary Indiana (& no, I don't just like him because of his name, although his real first name is Gary & he was born during the height of the popularity of the name Gary, thanks to the actor Gary Cooper, whose real name isn't Gary, but who was named Gary by his agent who was from - ta-da! - Gary, Indiana) & although I've never read any of his books, I remember reading something from him in The Nation about what he felt the Democrat's political platform should be in 2004, & while I am ordering one of his books online, I'll share this with you & hope it doesn't offend either him or The Nation:

"Ratify the Kyoto Protocol and withdraw from NAFTA and the WTO. Replace the World Bank and the IMF with a single Islamic structure that doesn't charge interest. Offer tax credits for the purchase of small, fuel-efficient automobiles. Cut taxes for individuals and couples who decide not to reproduce. Make abortions available and free at shopping malls, along with blood- pressure and glucose-tolerance tests.
Cut the military budget in half to fund healthcare, childcare, education and job training. Cut the remaining half by another half to rebuild urban infrastructures and expand public transportation. Cut the remaining half in half and give it to the families of civilian casualties in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Restore full civil rights to convicted felons who have served their sentences in our gulags, the vast majority railroaded by the plea-bargaining process. Pay ex-convicts $100 an hour to meet their parole officers. Revise the grand jury system to allow defendants legal representation and the right to call their own witnesses. Simultaneously eliminate all plea bargaining so that every felony indictment results in a jury trial.
Restore the exclusive right of Congress to declare war, and declare any deployment of American troops 'war,' even if it's supposedly against abstractions like "drugs' or 'terror.' The only drug-related combat we need is a few years of intense forensic auditing of drug companies and punitive-damage awards to everyone they've overcharged. Make war profiteering and outsourcing of jobs federal crimes punishable by ten years of community service clearing litter from poor neighborhoods and seizure of corporate assets. Rescind the elements of the legal code that allow corporations to be considered 'persons.'
Make recreational drugs safer and available over the counter at pharmacies and liquor stores."

Matter

Here's a nice image I took from http://www.meta-synthesis.com/webbook/31_matter/matter.html:



I hope they don't mind if I reproduce it. I think it's cool.

That kind of matter of course is not the same matter as in the question "Does it matter?" which Self Help Radio attempted to answer last night. Do you want to know what the answer was? No? Not even a little? Oh. Well, if you change your mind, you can find out whether or not Self Help Radio thinks it matters by listening to last night's show at selfhelpradio.net. If I didn't answer the question, there's a few songs that did.

Something About Menus

Do you know people who collect menus? I know one. One people who collects menus.

Why does this people collect menus? Wouldn't it be lonesome & hungry to sit in one's house, say, in Minnesota, while looking at a menu from, say, a lovely vegan restaurant in Brooklyn? Even if they delivered, it might be simpler to simply make a simple sandwich. Or a complex one. Though it's not as as tasty as the one that's on the menu. & what if the kid's on a bicycle? He could die in Cleveland!

Do you know people who can't decide what to order from most menus? I know several people like that. It makes eating out with them sometimes trying.

But I completely understand. If it's a great restaurant, like, say, a lovely vegan restaurant in Brooklyn, which you, living in, say, Minnesota, may not visit again for many months if not years, & who's to say it will still be there when you get back, you want to order the best food off the menu possible. What horrible regret faces you if you were to order the fourth- or fifth-best entree off the menu! Perhaps you should eat with people who will share with you.

Do you know of any radio show which has its own menu? I suppose that radio show would be more like a jukebox than a radio show. Is that what satellite radio is like? In any event, Self Help Radio has no menu. But it will be serving up its regular midnight snack tonight at midnight (that's why it's a midnight snack) on 88.1 fm WMUL in Huntington, & then as leftovers the next day at selfhelpradio.net. Bon appetit!

Whither Does It Matter?

I think I pointed out that this is only the third Self Help Radio that explicitly asks a question. (Other shows, of course, ask implicit questions, the most common of which is, "Why do they let this guy do a radio show?") I can't imagine why I haven't done more questions. Or maybe just formulated my themes more like questions, for example, "Cheese?"

The answer to which would of course be "Yes please!"

I do fear that Self Help Radio may get a bit too philosophical this week. I mean, "Does it matter?" Isn't that the sort of thing that short, bearded men in turtlenecks write big books about that are only read by their students? The truth is, I don't really know what I'm going to talk about. Y'see, one gets the idea for a show for whatever reason (a bolt from the blue, a telegram from one's mom, the desire to play a particular song on the radio & so constructing an entire show around it, etc.) & then one figures out what one is going to say in-between the songs. At least I suppose that's how it's done. I am like that dude from "Memento" - no, not buff, blonde & tattooed - I forget each radio show after I've done it. I'm surprised I haven't done this theme before. Or have I?

My one request is for the bands that I like to write more songs about cold noodles with sesame sauce. I would love to do any entire show about that. How delicious would that be? VERY DELICIOUS!

Also, does anyone else besides me think the word "makeshift" sounds naughty?

Preface To Does It Matter?: Well, Does It? Does It Really Matter?

I had planned to write something snarky for this post like "No. No, it doesn't."

But the new record by The Secret History came out this week, & I can't stop listening to it.

So sometimes, you know, everything seems like it matters.

YOUR Secret Name! LEARN It Now!

Did you know you had a Secret Name?!? You DO! Shhhhh! It's SECRET!

How do you find out your Secret Name? You CAN'T! It's a SECRET! You can't just go around telling people a Secret! It stops being a Secret then. Then it becomes Common Knowledge! Yes, even if only TWO PEOPLE know it. There's no in-between!

Do you know who knows your SECRET NAME? Somebody does! If no one knew, it would not be a Secret! It would be UNKNOWN! Nobody knows that which is UNKNOWN! Once someone knows the Unknown, it become the KNOWN.

Right now your Secret Name is KNOWN but it's UNKNOWN to you. It's a SECRET! Furthermore, if the one person who KNOWS your Secret Name told you, then it would no longer be a SECRET. The two of you would know it, & it would therefore become Common Knowledge! OH NO! What happens then? Then YOU would have to KILL the person who told you your Secret Name!

But that's MURDER! It's absolutely NECESSARY if you want to keep your Secret Name a SECRET! But surely there's ANOTHER WAY!

THERE IS!

MAKE UP your own Secret Name! Your own made-up Secret Name automatically TRUMPS any Secret Name you might have out there! Now you don't have to MURDER anyone! Unless you tell them your SECRET NAME!

Don't do that.

I Lost Consciousness For A Bit There

& when I awoke, there was an entire radio show finished. Which is funny. I've never blacked out during a radio show before.

You can explore with me what happened during those missing ninety minutes at selfhelpradio.net. It's a little weird - while I was unconscious, I did a radio show about unconsciousness.

I guess I'm glad I wasn't shot. I would've bled out trying to play songs about getting shot!

818 CE!

Okay, virtually nothing happened in 818 CE. (I do use the secular "CE" for "common era," rather than the front-loaded Christian nomenclature "AD," which stands for "Anno Domini," which is Latin for "In the year of the Lord," a reference to Jesus/God, not to Zeus, in which case I'd probably use it.)

Here's all it says on the Wikipedia page about 818: "Bishop Theodulf of Orléans is deposed & imprisoned, after becoming involved in a conspiracy of King Bernard of Italy against Louis the Pious." It was four years after the death of Charlemagne, so the confusion at the end of his reign was just beginning. The Crusades were nearly three centuries away.

Here's a map of the "Eastern Hemisphere" at the beginning of the 9th century. Here's a map of the same part of the world at the end of the 9th century. So a lot of shit would happen in the 9th century. Just not in 818 CE.

Here's a list of stuff that happened in the 9th century.

How about them Arctic Marine Mammal Hunters? Don't you think that that would be an awesome name for a band? How long do you think they'd be hollered at by people at PETA?

Hey! Fans of the Western Hemisphere! There weren't any kingdoms like in Asia or Europe, by the Maya & the Aztec were getting the party started right, & in North America there were the Mound Builders, still going strong.

Sorry if you were expecting more exciting news about 818 CE. Might you be excited that there's a new Self Help Radio tonight at midnight on 88.1 WMUL in Huntington? Or that it will be archived tomorrow at selfhelpradio.net? No?

You're hard to please.

Whither Unconsciousness?

What's the difference between the unconscious & the subconscious? That's simple. The unconscious is a theoretical (from Freudian "psychology") state wherein things which you've repressed (like childhood trauma, or wanting to have sex with your parents) are hidden. The subconscious is the state just below your conscious state, where things you know are stored & to which you have relatively easy access. Like, say, the address of a friend in another state to whom you've written a lot. You have to recall it when you're writing out the envelope - it's not always in the forefront of your mind.

"Unconscious" of course also means the state of not being conscious, & that's how Self Help Radio will use it this week, because we're not Freudians. The things that Freud said which could be experimented for their scientific validity were long ago proven untrue, & the things he said which couldn't be falsified are not scientific any way. Not that that bothers Freudians, of course. They like the ideas & will run with them, which is a very human thing to do. But I & everyone at Self Help Radio (which is basically only me) like science better.

This show, haters, is not my answer to critics who have called me a "blackout drunk." First of all, I have no critics, since that would require listeners, which I'm also pretty sure I don't have. Secondly, the only person who would even know about me being a "blackout drunk" is Drunk Gary, who I turn into when I drink. I don't remember anything Drunk Gary does & vice-versa, although he's begun leaving me nearly indecipherable notes on the computer before he goes to bed, like this one, which says, "yr kriks say yr a blakout drnk." But, as you can plainly see, what he writes makes absolutely no sense.