The Years Have Not Been Kind

Amerigo Vespucci was a punk. There. I said it. On the fourth of July.

What would he care? Dude was Italian, after all. He would no more have wanted to hang with James Madison that you would. Now that guy was short. Teeny, really. Shortest United States President ever. Shorter by nearly a foot than his best butt buddy Jefferson. He could barely look over the Official Presidential Podium. They made him stand on a milk crate. In fact, one of the first crises of his presidency was when Charles C. Pinckney stole the milk crate during Madison's first two months. For this, you know, Pinckney was kneecapped by the Secret Service.

Of course, Vespucci was also a notorious firebug, so he probably would've loved to be at the White House when the British burned it down. So maybe he would've enjoyed having a slice of pizza & laughing laughing laughing at shrimp boat Madison while the mansion was in flames. But one shouldn't speculate about such things, not on America's birthday.

Vespucci also was fond of what would later be called "Cartesian Erotica," because Descartes made it popular at the court of Louis the thirteenth. But neither Vespucci nor Descartes really knew that that smut wasn't French nor Italian in origin, but Manichaean, originating in the more perverse writings of the bawdy upper class of the Sassanid Empire. It surpassed the rather tame Catholic porn of the time, which inevitably had to have the Pope involved, or at least an abbott with a strap-on. So while it was a step up, it most certainly wasn't as much fun as Boccaccio. That mofo knew how to throw down.

If you must celebrate the lucky sumbitch who got two continents named after him, not to mention a country sort of, go ahead. No one's stopping you. I know he wrote a few really good songs that emo bands cover regularly (although no one has ever really done a really good cover of his hit single "I Got Them Ain't No Way It's Asia, They'd Rather Believe Henry The Navigator, But Fuck Me If It's Not A Fourth Continent Blues") & I know he invented the shrug, but he was a punk. That's all I'm saying.

Snake Finger Sandwich

Since tomorrow is the Fourth Of July, which is a national holiday because no other month has the number four in it, I figured I'd do an American thing & link to this article/speech by E.L. Doctorow which is an exquisite discussion of how fucked our nation is. It's not nearly as funny as George Carlin, but it'll do.

I should also note that this weekend, which I for one have noted nearly two times before is a three-day weekend because of the Fourth Of July (so have a fifth of something on me) (just don't make yourself sixth), is the birthday of our youngest, Winston, pictured below when we still had green grass in our backyard - come to mention it, when we still had wood he hadn't chewed up in our backyard. He'll be one. He's a dwarf, which means he's had lots of health issues, & we've had a lot of dire predictions about how long he'd live (one vet told us he'd be dead a month from his visit), but he's much, much healthier now & as much a part of our household as the whiskey & the air conditioner. Happy birthday little Winston!



I may have something to say tomorrow, but I'll still busy gathering "Saturday night" songs for this week's show. It does something weird to your mind to spend all week thinking about Saturday night - although I suppose I'm now more like most Americans than I care to admit. So much for Independence Day!

Whither Saturday Night?

That sounds like the title of a song!

Here's something perhaps mildly interesting about having this blog thing which virtually no one reads (except you, of course) & having written in it for a couple of years & there being lots of different titles & stuff: it causes search engines consternation. Or is that possible? Maybe it causes the users of search engines consternation. That sounds more appropriate. I will give you a few examples of search engine terms that have brought unsuspecting folks to this blog. I wish I knew what they made of it!

By far the saddest search phrase that brought a person to here is this: "leave my husband alone." Imagine! I happened to title one of these entries that about a year ago. I wish I could help. But what a weird sentence! Who would say such a thing? & if your husband is being bothered, shouldn't he be man enough to say it himself?

Or maybe this is sadder: "leave me alone husband." Yeah, that's sadder. It also sounds like the title to a song!

I titled an entry "Online Toffee Makers Revolt!" about a year ago, & so it found its way to someone looking for "online toffee makers." I don't personally know how to make toffee online, but I hope the person found it despite my obfuscation.

Someone found this blog by typing in "how to have whiter teeth." THAT is some self help.

Or what about this search phrase: "conjugal visits in austin texas"? Wouldn't you want to hear THAT story?! (The blog title, from last year, was "Early September Conjugal Visit." How I wish I could have really been talking about conjugal visits! Can they happen if your jailer is your own damaged self?)

Sometimes they're just odd. Here are a few:
- insomnia court cases
- quilting in Photoshop
- ferrigno disease
- runners are lame
- suck my fucking cock you prick

Okay, the last one isn't true. I just wanted to be profane.

I get a lot of hits for people looking for someone named "Gary Dickerson." That is, of course, me, but I understand (heck, I've even blogged about it) that there are other Gary Dickersons out there. But why not say hello if you know or don't know me? Maybe you're checking to see whether I've finally grown tired of the rot inside me & done what everyone expected me to do right after high school, which is eat a bullet all the way up my brain. Sorry! It hasn't happened yet! Be patient!

Oh, er, um, Saturday night. It's fun, right? Wanna go out?

Preface To Saturday Night: It's Just Tuesday Afternoon. Calm Down.

For the past few weeks what I believe is a Bewick's Wren has been living in a hole in our garage, near the washer & dryer. This was, it turns out, a very wise thing, as only things with wings (unlike cats, say, or perhaps beagles) could get in or out, & sex was had & eggs were laid & soon enough I noticed whenever I let the dogs out that there was a lot of action going on, including the peeking out of little beaks from the hole & a harried-looking parents stuffing dead things into said beaks. At no point, by the way, did the Bewicks offer to pay any rent nor did they seem ashamed of their sudden, obviously fecund tenancy. Oh no. They acted as though they were entitled.

Time passed. On Sunday, the youngest of the household beaglets, known only as Winston, was seen perhaps chasing a live thing around the yard. It turned out that this was a baby bird with still some of whatever they call the feather fluff that's on them. Winston was dutifully taken away & forced to read the Bible (which he instead ate, so now he has to read Dianetics, which he refuses to eat) & we waited & sure enough, we soon found the happy parents (terrible tenants) leading the two youngsters through the treetops. The miracle of life in our own backyard! Without all that unnecessary voice-over work!

My point is this: you 21st Century Kids think everything revolves around a Saturday night. You think "party, party, party" even though the planet is dying & our frisbee-shaped alien overseers are eating our glaciers in protest! You can't see your hands in front of your trees - forest - whatever that saying is - because you've turned this one night of the week into some kind of holy time. Imagine, making some particular day a holy day! That would be so fucking dumb! Like, say, if I said, "You can't work on Sunday because it's a holy day." You'd be likely to give me a purple nurple & run away laughing. That's how inane it is. & you're doing it with Saturday night! Can't you see?

Listen to this: the miracle of life I described above, not the bird sex which is kind of sick, but the babies leaving the nest & going out to become accountants or file clerks or restaurant owners (like birds do), that happened not on a Saturday night, but on a Sunday afternoon. You heard me! You know what else? I never have magical things happen to me on a Saturday night. So there. You're proven wrong.

We could compromise. Let's make it Thursday midday. After all, you can sleep it off at work & no one will notice because it's Thursday. I'll bring my dark sunglasses, you bring the Riunite on ice. That's nice.

Countdown To Brush Fires!

Last week, I believe on Friday but it could have been earlier, my lovely girlfriend Magda bought me a number of two liter bottles of my (almost literal) poison of choice, which is Diet Dr. Peeper, of which I consume an enormous amount, mainly to let my organs know how much I dislike them. Fuck you gall bladder! This was very sweet of her but because it's been about one hundred & fifty degrees here every day & because she left them in the back seat of our car, some of them burst & others looked like some liquid had evaporated away & some had weird rounded bottoms because of the heat. Imagine if she had left our baby in there! Hell, imagine if we had a baby!

Some of the bottles were ruined, so I ate them. I mean, so I emptied them & put them in a recycling bin. The others seemed fine, so I put them on the shelf & ate them. No, no. I just put them on the shelf.

Because I am terrified of expiration dates (I never seem to finish stuff in time), I always put new stuff in back, & I had a few bottles left. But later in the day I thought, "Perhaps I should taste them. Just in case. While I still have some old bottles left."

So I did. You know that way you feel when you open a seemingly new bottle of wine & have a sip & it's spoiled or been corked or it's just a bottle of urine someone left at your party because they're an asshole? Somehow this was worse. See, Dirt Mr. Pipper doesn't really taste like regular Dr. Ripper. It doesn't really taste like anything soda-y at all. It's not good, but luckily I've acquired a taste for it & I need a regular caffeine delivery system that doesn't involve hot liquids. (It's better than anything else, though. Diet Croke can SUCK IT.)

This taste was like what plastic-eating plastic beings enjoy as a refreshing beverage. This taste was like if you fell asleep in the pool with your mouth against a plastic pool ball & the sun was hot & it slightly melted into your mouth. This taste was like making out with Plastic Man. It was awful.

I tell you all this because I can't seem to get it out of my mouth. I've tried everything, even hot liquids, but no luck. If you'd like to help, one way to start is to visit selfhelpradio.net & listen to last week's show, which was & is about "cut," whatever that means. It may not seem to help, but I promise it will.

& kids, don't leave sodas in the car on hot days. What the fuck were you thinking?

Weird. I Missed A Day.

You heard me! I zoned out today working on tomorrow's fabulous show & missed writing in my blog! Also, I'm going to visit my mother tomorrow, so my brain is only working at embarrassed second grader capacity. Forgive me. I'll write more funny funny the next time.

But can I remind you that tomorrow at selfhelpradio.net there'll be a new show? & though I will be sober, it'll still be ugly? Wait. What?

Did You Want Extra Extra With That?

While virtually unknown outside the seedy world of truck stops & logging towns, Self Help Radio continues to this very day to provide musical foodstuffs to a tone-hungry world. For this June of 2008 (patent pending), Self Help Radio offers once more an "extra" in the form of Self Help Radio Extra, a homemade mix made by a homeboy called me in the privy of my own home. It features new stuff from the likes of Johnny Foreigner, Sparks, Tilly & The All, & The Sound Of Arrows plus old stuff that the new stuff reminded me of. Have a look. Have a listen. It's from me to you.

Self Help Radio Extra. Insert some made up slogan here, but make it sound like the deep voice who did the "Better than it has to be, Amalie" commercials in the 80's. Which I can't find on You Tube. But I did find a piano-playing cat. So that's something.

Whither Cut?

There are sixty-five definitions for the verb "cut" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Can you imagine? Let me say that again, in bold: There are sixty-five definitions for the verb "cut" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Such a little verb!

Now you may be thinking, with sixty-five definitions for the verb alone, surely a show of this kind can be easily done, & the host must be a lazy fuck indeed. But wait! Some of the definitions are bee-zar! Listen:

8. b. (slang or colloq.) to cut it too fat: to ‘come it strong’, overdo a thing.
10. To break up, reduce, or dissolve the viscidity of (a liquid, phlegm, etc.).
30. Dancing. (intr.) To spring from the ground, and, while in the air, to twiddle the feet one in front of the other alternately with great rapidity.
44 c. (used in cheese-making) To add extra stank to the cheese; to poot it up.

Okay, I made up the last one. But seriously, that's all fourteen different kinds of nutty! I can't find any songs for such things!

My favorite use of cut is of course definition 22b:

22. b. To dilute or adulterate. Chiefly U.S. "He cut his heroin with confectioner's sugar to make it more delicious."

The show isn't really supposed to be about the kind of cutting we associate with goth girls. Although I'd love to listen to a radio show about these kind of cutters. But they don't even have a complete wikipedia entry!

I know the one you like best. Admit it, music lover: 23d.

23 d. Sound Recording. To record; to make (a record). orig. U.S.

Or is it 21e, film buff?

21. e. (Cinemat., Radio.) trans. To edit (a film, etc.). Also intr., to make a quick transition from one shot to the next. imp. A signal to stop.

"Cut!"

You'll find me in my trailer.

Preface To Cut: A Lifetime Fighting Against Shaving

First two paragraphs of a new science fiction blockbuster I'm writing:

Ronald stood silently with a cap gun against the head of his little brother Rudolfo. Rudolfo had no idea whether the cap gun was loaded or not. Plus he really had to go pee pee & knew that, the minute the cap went off, not only would he experience a painful ringing in his head (this wasn't the first time Ronald had put a cap gun to his head), but he'd also pee all over himself. NOT AGAIN! he thought to himself.

Ronald had only the slightest sense of his little brother's plight. Unbeknownst to Rudolfo, Ronald was able to sense, unlike other human beings, the invisible aliens which live among & slowly eat the souls of human beings. Ronald had watched his parents get consumed until all that was left was their bodies as empty husks. He didn't want it to happen to him, & he definitely didn't want it to happen to his little brother Rudolfo. NEVER AGAIN! he thought to himself.

A word about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder may be inserted into this section of the narrative at some future time. The wikipedia article is kinda long & I am still a little sleepy after lunch. Also, while readers may assume Ronald & Rudolfo are children, I need to add dialogue which suggests they're in their late thirties & spend way too much money on strippers.

Also, Kjuch, the lead soul eater, should eventually realize that his people, by eating the souls of corporeal beings, are endangering their own immortal souls, as he realizes by reading, while he's eating a fundamentalist preacher, the Bible in the preacher's hands. Kjuch then attempts to proselytize to his people, but they don't want to learn to read & they argue that the religious people, whose souls are already kinda thin, taste worse than the non-believers. Kjuch sticks to his guns & starves to death, as his people can't eat anything but human souls.

Note: can we get that "Young At Heart" group to do the soundtrack? Maybe covering nothing but Siouxsie & The Banshee songs. & make it a point that both Ronald & Kjuch move their lips while they read. That'll establish the empathic relationship between monster & hunter required for the ages 14 - 21 demographic.

There'll need to be a seemingly plausible radiation sequence where Kjuch is visible to all humans - or maybe just Shriners - & them a long boat chase through Venice. I've always wanted to go to Venice. I've always wanted a boat chase.

For further reading, I suggest you listen to last week's Self Help Radio, which was about TRASH, available not at finer stores near you, but at the shabbily appointed website called selfhelpradio.net. This podcast not only contains the germs of this science fiction blockbuster, but... No, it just contains the germs. It's trash, after all.

Stay tuned! I haven't finished writing this & now Singapore businessmen are offering me seventeen million dollars if I let their favorite hookers play the strippers in the movie. This should be in post-production in time for Christmas!

George Carlin

I just found out. I shouldn't be sad - he lived one hell of a life. Imagine! Being so funny, so smart, so insightful - & getting paid for it? Because that what he did. His is a voice that'll be missed.

I had a really good friend - my very first best friend - in middle & high school named Scott Hauff. Scott was always quoting George Carlin to me, routines like the "hippy-dippy weatherman." It was one of those cases where I initially thought he - that is to say, Scott - was coming up with the routines. Not that he took credit for it, but he did make me laugh enough to go to the source.

Sometimes I can be a prude & find coarse humor a little too much, so I've never been a fan of his fart jokes. I'm not interested in the least in marijuana, so the fact that my stoner brothers spoke of him as being in the same category as Cheech & Chong was off-putting. What attracted me first to Carlin in my adult life was his observations on language. Here are two mp3s from the audio version of what I suppose is his last book, When Will Jesus Bring The Pork Chops?, which are his observations about the language of poor people:







His observations on language of course led him to talk about politics & how those in power use language to keep power. John Nichols has written a piece about him called George Carlin: American Radical that says it better than I could.

I don't mean to focus just on that aspect, because he was just as funny when he was being absurd. He was one funny motherfucker, but his humor could also lead you to profound insight. There are very few comedians about whom you can say that.

Man. A lifetime of quotes, observation, gut laughs, embarrassment. I still think of what he said about air travel whenever a plane lands & the crew says "Welcome to [insert city]!" Carlin said, "How can they welcome you if they just got there themselves?"

Of course, as a radio guy, you know the bit that has probably affected me most in my "career." It led a Supreme Court case that defined what we can & can't say on the radio. & his routine was read into the decision. Immortality!

I never got to see him live (just on the TV), but I've gobbled up as much as I can find & will continue to do so. & of course I've played him on my show whenever possible. I'll miss his insight, but I'll say again, he lived one hell of a life. I'm glad I existed in the world when he did for as long as I did. & I'm glad we existed together in a time when his observations & writings could be saved & easily accessed.

Thank you, George Carlin, & goodbye!

The Inbox Crowd

Much thanks to the weirdo who thought he would repay me for the suggestion of the album cover to name matching game yesterday with a link to Puzzlefarter. Yes, I've been playing it. No, I am not very good at it. That should come as a relief, but it does not. I like to win!

I am about to go record the airbreaks for the Trash show. I have a special guest, a person who writes books about the garbage of famous people. Do you think he'll smell nice? I hope so. It's a smallish place where we record. One unpleasant aroma could ruin the whole session. But the show will be great. Trust me on this. Much, much better than the imaginary one I did in my head four years ago. That one sucked.

Do feel free to send me links to ridiculous online games that are a complete waste of time. Otherwise I'll do work, & no one - not even my boss! - wants to see my do that.

& do find me tomorrow afternoon at selfhelpradio.net for this week's show - all about trash. I haven't heard it yet, but I think it'll be awesome.

Not Any Longer Confessive Obpulsive

Ack! I can't stop playing this game! It's a game where you have like twenty seconds to match nine album (or CD) covers with the names of the record. I'm not very good at it, though. The category I most find myself in is "alternative" although if they had a category called "records Gary's brothers had that he rifled through continually when he was a young kid" I'd be awesome at it.

There were certain records I would never have listened to, not in a million years, but whose sleeves I found amazing, like a panel of a long comic book the rest of which existed entirely in my head. For example, the cover to Queen's News Of The World (the image doesn't show you how the record folded out), which I would never, even as a kid, have listened to of my own free will, although, of course, I've heard the songs "We Will Rock You" & "We Are The Champions" more times than my mother ever told me she loved me. But the cover! An alien made of stone killing all those hippies! The stories that album cover brought into my head!

There were other memorable ones, but I can't find images of them online - I guess they were not as famouss, or maybe I'm remembering the names wrong - but games like this do make me miss vinyl & the attention lavished on album covers. Maybe I suck at the game because most of the records in the "alternative" category are from CDs & who the fuck pays attention to a CD cover?

Record collecting friends back in the day often would distinguish between a "great package" - the music & the presentation were both great - & great records that had shitty sleeves & great sleeves hiding awful records. Middle- to late-period 4AD records often got that last complaint - 23 Envelope did a smashing job with the sleeve but the record is unfuckinglistenable. Do you hear me Ultra Vivid Scene? Do you?

(That's not really my opinion. I was in character! Plus, that first Ultra Vivid Scene record, the one with the toothbrush on the cover - that's not a very good presentation for a decent pop record.)

I do miss vinyl, but not enough to actually buy it. Ack! What a pain in the ass! It's so much easier to be digital. & maybe I'm a philistine, but it sounds fine to me. But perhaps the vinyl-o-philes are winning. Which is great. There'll be more records whose sleeves I don't recognize in work-habit-destroying games like this one.

No worries! My iPod will tell me what the sleeve looks like!

Whither Trash?

If there's anything you must take away from a cursory glance at post-ideological America in the twenty-first of all possible centuries, it's this: the fucking place is a mess. What the hell went on here? Your father & I were just gone for the weekend & we come back & - I mean, just look at Wyoming. Look at it.

I am completely ripping off a Kids In The Hall sketch right now. I can't remember much of it, so I can't find it in their episode guides or on YouTube, but I know a Kids In The Hall sketch when I rip it off. & that's one of them. Maybe.

I would also like to point out that it's the second time this week I have used some sort of construction involving "the 21st century." I believe on Monday I used the phrase "the twenty-first of all human centuries" & just above I noted that this was "the twenty-first of all possible centuries." I would like you to incorporate this sort of talk in your everyday language. & not just about centuries. It helps to imagine that you're addressing a large audience. A large, nude audience.

You know what? I was totally not ripping off a Kids In The Hall sketch up there. It was an homage. Which reminds me. I once used the word "homage" in a phone call to someone who probably never called me back, but I pronounced it "hommedge." A friend who was sitting next to me corrected me when I got off the phone. He asked me where I heard the word & why I was pronouncing it wrong, & I said (which was true) that I had read it & never heard it spoken. That happened with the word "ascertain" too. & "metropolis," which I used to pronounce met-ro-pol-is, not muh-trop-o-lis. Oh shit! Maybe that dude didn't call me back because I mispronounced homage! What a judgmental fuck.

It might not be a Kids In The Hall sketch, but I'm pretty sure it is. I seem to remember Dave Foley in it. They throw a party & they trash the country & they have to clean it up before their parents get home. Who else could it be? That sketch freaked me out the first time I saw it, in a similar way to how I felt the first time I saw the Monty Python Olympic Hide & Seek. That gave me nightmares.

I wasn't writing in this blog in 2004, but since I did an imaginary radio show about trash then, you can go back & read my imaginary blog where I imaginarily discussed why I chose that theme. I can't imagine I ripped off the Kids In The Hall at that time - but I probably did.

Preface To Trash: Wait! Didn't You Do A Trash Show Before?

I got this email from the little voice that lives inside my head:

Dear fuckface,
I know you pride yourself on being "original" & "edgy" & "heterosexual," but I am writing to inform you that you are totally re-doing one of your old themes this week. Ha! This is hubris, my friend! Your pride goeth & then you fucking fall! Because you're all like "I never do the same theme except when it's a special event because I am that good a deejay & I am also a girl waah! waah!" But ha ha! You did a "trash" show back in the summer of 2004! What do you say to that?
love,
your inner voice

I wish I could tell you how kind it was of my inner voice to write me an email. Normally it just engenders in me tremendous guilt & shame that I can only forget about with massive amounts of alcohol. This may mean that our relationship is getting better.

What my little voice tells you is true, & you can see it on my website on the page of 2004 playlists. According to this page, on June 30, 2004, I did a show about "Trash." But wait! Look what it says next to it: "Imaginary Radio Show # 3"! What could that mean?

It means that, in the summer of 2004, I was not doing my radio show. The reason for it had to do with internal KOOP politics - I had offended the regime in power at the time, & they used their cronies to accuse me of stuff, which resulted in me not doing a radio show for a couple of months. In the interval, I pretended to do radio shows - if it happened now, I'd be doing podcasts - but then, I just posted playlists. I probably also burned myself some CDs to listen to, or to send to my girlfriend, who was in New York that summer. I just didn't want to get out of practice. The point is, I never really did a radio show with the theme of "trash" - I just made a playlist. Is all.

Hey! I just got another email from the little voice that lives in my head:

Dear douchebag,
You win - but only on a technicality. Next time, though, I bury you. I fucking obliterate you.
can't wait for dinner,
your inner voice

If my inner voice ever figures out how to text, I will be in all thirty-two kinds of hell.

A Punishment Of Britches

Let it never be said, in the annals of all humankind, in this choked & stinkish blog-o-sphere, where altitude & attitude trump rectitude & pulchritude, where each voice is equal in theory but unreadable in practice, where one is judged by content management systems, network & web page affiliations, ad clicks & crossover marketing potential, as we hunker down in this, the twenty-first of all human centuries, where challenges are affirmations & every diagnosis is also a prognosis, where the last of labels shall set us all free, where the digital boundaries are drawn by RAM & CPU, not by surveyor & natural landmark, where the slowly disappearing highway on the emptying American terrain reappears in our mind, unbounded, in leaps & bounds, at the outset on its last legs, fetid, fertile, fanciful, false, the whole slew of this & that not to replace those & them, but to render them neutral & neutered, to placate power while posing as populist, where... In this... Let it not be said... As we in this century are... Uh... Fuck!

I lost my train of thought.

Oh, well, why not just go listen to the "Pale Show," this past week's episode of Self Help Radio, which is available for your listerine pleasure at selfhelpradio.net. It's free of harmful ultraviolet rays, although it may have dangerous musics.

Seriously, though, I was going to say something meaningful up there. It's just, fuck! I lost my train of thought.

What To Do When Your Teeth Disagree

Have you ever had a friend talk to you at length about a book, including telling you the basic plot & also about some of the more interesting stories & characters within, usually commenting on each person or event & telling you exactly how it made them feel or what they thought it meant, & then, after this moderately tolerable dialogue, smiling at you & saying, "Do you wanna read it?" How do you tell your friend that they did for the book what most movie trailers do for movies? Which is to say, ruined it for me.

My girlfriend regularly wears clothes without pockets (I am told this is a woman thing) & sometimes uses it as an excuses to bum money off of me. This doesn't bother me, as I like to pretend I can provide something to her, & I usually have more cash on hand than she does, but she almost never remembers, once she's taken, say, a twenty, to go buy ice or something, she never remembers to bring me the change. Here's my worry: if she has no pockets, where is my change?

I am now an avid flosser. This shouldn't surprise you. But there was a time - not very long ago, I will shamefully admit - that flossing seemed incorrect to me for one reason: I wasn't really convinced there ought to be spaces in between teeth. Hear me out. It struck me that perhaps our teeth should be close enough together that even a something threadlike couldn't get between them - & worse yet, that if you tried to get something between them, you'd crack the teeth. I can't think what disabused me of that notion. Oh, yeah. Regular flossing.

While listening to lots of Bill Hicks trying to find a bit he did about how pale he is (for this week's show, & no, I didn't find it on any of his recorded released stuff, so I suppose it's from a videotape or television special), I was struck by how little I laughed. I did think it was excruciatingly funny, but I've listened to the records so much that I don't laugh any more - I anticipate the humor. Much like the way when I listen to stuff that I've been listening to my entire life I now listen to the instruments more - say, the bass, if I've never paid any attention to it - I found myself listening to the audience. Sometimes you can even make out conversations. The reason I mention this is not only to segue to talking about this week's show but also to note that I don't have the same experience with comedy on television or film - Monty Python or Marx Brothers. Just recorded comedy.

Speaking of things you might not think are funny, the new show is being prepared this afternoon. Look for it tomorrow afternoon. Listen to it Sunday afternoon. Reflect on it Monday afternoon. Tell your friends about itTuesday afternoon. Call in sick to work so you can be drunk Wednesday afternoon. Who care what you do Thursday afternoon? I'll be recording another podcast next Friday afternoon. Let's continue in this vein. For ever.

I'm Sometimes A Punk

Though I don't have a mohawk. Nor do I know any Mohawks. I might ask them if they like punk rock music.

I like a lot of it, but of course not all of it. Some of the stuff that I like that I think of as punk is probably not punk, & lots of the stuff that is thought of as punk I can't really stand. What sort of punk do I like? I'm glad I'm pretending that you ask.

You can have a listen to a mix I sort of made for my nephew's college graduation party (it's edited) last month here on the Self Help Radio Extra page. It's without any interruption & it's about seventy-four minutes long.

No mohawk required! From me to you! Now, if you're excuse me, I'm going to daydream & listen to Bill Moyers talk.

Whither A Show About Paleness?

Is paleness even a word?

Ack! I am late for today's blog entry! I have no compelling explanations! I don't need to defend myself to you! You got more explaining to do than me! Judge not lest ye be judged!

Yeah, it's a weird idea, a show about a lack of color. I confess there aren't a lot of songs about that. There are more songs about pale things. So it'll mainly be a show about pale things, more than paleness. Sue me. It's just a podcast.

I myself am quite pale. Always have been. Some people's skin ripens like fruit in the sun & stays golden over the summer. I resort to a zombie-esque hue mere moments after non-sunburn exposure. Here's a funny story: I went to a dermatologist a while back to get a third eye removed (long story) & the dermatologist wanted to look at my back which, truth be told, is as white as vanilla ice cream. Not french vanilla - I'm talking soft serve vanilla. Anyway, she said, "You've got some sun damaged back here." She meant freckles. That's a bad way to talk about freckles. Freckles may be caused by sun damage, but it's evil to take something as adorable as freckles & make them seem evil. I won't have it.

Plus, she wouldn't remove the third eye. Referred me to an evil optometrist. Long story.

The experience of the pale is certainly one we shall explore. Or else I will say "Ack!" once more, & collapse on the floor.

Preface To The Pale Show: Ode On A Plastic Spoon

Hey! Who put this ode on this plastic spoon? I was gonna use this spoon! Do you know how hard it is to get ode off a plastic spoon? Cleaners can melt the freakin' plastic! You! Yeah, you, with the beret! Are you the dirty dog poet who put this ode on my plastic spoon? What the fuck? Do I go over to your house & write a limerick on your butter knife? Hanh? Do I wander by your work & write a sestina on your spork? Oh Christ, look, you've got me rhyming now. Just get away from me! & don't mess with my non-biodegradable cutlery ever again!

This particular Self Help Radio blog entry was supposed to be enjoyed - prepared just for you - with a small cup of some sweet pale yogurt. The place was set & you were to come here, make yourself comfortable, & read an amusing preface to a show about a lack of color while eating something that not only lacks color, but also taste. All prepared for you by Self Help Radio. Because Self Help Radio wants to be hospitable.

Instead, some itinerant wannabe bard stops by, sees something that no sane person could possibly see in a plastic spoon sitting next to the yogurt, & just can't help WRITING AN ODE on the plastic spoon. That's all thirteen kinds of crazy! Hey! You should be ashamed of yourself!

What the...? Oh great. Well, the good news is, the ode is gone. The bad news is, so is the yogurt. Yes, the poet ate his ode with the food. He literally ate his own words. Har har. He thinks he's so clever.

Get out of here! I gotta blog to write! Stupid poets!

Braise, Whimper & Fold

One more story about Bill before too long:

Bill never met a musical instrument he didn't want to put his mouth on. He could play them all tolerably well, if your definition of "tolerable" is the same definition John Ashcroft uses for testicular electrocution at Gitmo. Man I hated when he picked up an oboe - for example - & just started tooting on it. You did not want to go to any sort of store with him, nor church, but that was because he loved Satan.

How I found myself in a dried goods store last weekend I am not sure. I didn't even know there were such entities as "dried goods stores" outside of those infernal Hobbit books. Blast them! Yet there Bill & I stood, chewing on gunpowder & talking about tamarind when, out of nowhere he said, "I hear someone calling my name!"

You have to have regular responses to Bill, otherwise you won't make much sense, but my regular response to him was to the exclamation, "I hear [Jesus/God/The Virgin Mary/Albert Einstein] calling my name!" I had never heard him be vague. I listened, too. I heard it!

"Songs about me!" said Bill. It was true. The lunatic dried good store owner with the painted-on hard-on was playing songs about Bill. Bill was apoplectic. He accused the shopkeeper of adding cayenne pepper to the no-MSG sugar cane. But I told him, "Bill, that fellow isn't playing songs about you. He's listening to a radio show playing songs about you!"

It was true! The man behind the counter had gone to selfhelpradio.net & downloaded this week's show. Bill was astonished. He couldn't leave. He didn't leave.

For all I know, he's there still.