Best If We Don't Stand Up

Did you know? The Lucksmiths are in town tonight. It's a happy occasion, & far too rare!

& the KOOP Membership Drive continues apace. According to our website, we're at 36,000 - which means we're very close. Pledging during my show will not only give me happy shivers, but will also help the station end the drive early. So you can get back to your regularly scheduled listening. Oh boy!

We adopted a new child last week, as I detailed here, & he has already decided he doesn't respect my authority. He loves running around like an idiot, though, which makes him one of the family.

I'm not feeling terribly clever right now, but my show will be cleverly delicious tomorrow. Maybe I'll even find something nice to say here.

Instead, you can read a great column by Sam Harris. I love him.

Whither Marc Bolan & T Rex?

I love Marc Bolan. I love that he's born to boogie. I love his hippy-dippy shit & I love his crazy rock & roll songs. It's the essence of rock & roll to me. Idiosyncratic, sexy, danceable, singable, swingable. I love him so much I named one of my cats Bolan.

He died thirty years ago, killed in a car, & we lost a lot. "Life's a gas," he sang, "I hope it lasts." It doesn't, but how rare that someone can give as much to the world as Marc Bolan!

So I am celebrating him. It's also KOOP's Membership Drive. You know. Give us money. But even if you don't, know that this unbeliever is sharing something with you that's as sacred as it gets.

Preface To The Marc Bolan/T Rex Tribute: Crystals In The Urine?!?!

This is a strange & lovely collection of found photos of one woman.

I had a best friend in first grade but though he & I continued for ten more years of school together, we weren't as close as at the first. He disappeared I think around ninth grade, but we were barely more than acquaintances by then. Strangely enough, as in a weird Dickens' chapter, I ran into him in my third year of college. We became friends again, probably better friends than even first grade.

He lived in a big Austin house (rented) with squeaky hardwood floors & high ceilings, with two or three other dudes. One of them was a very big fellow who wouldn't have been out of place as the scary fat guy at a frat party, who told me once that, if you have have sex by rubbing your penis between a woman's breasts, it's called "the Hawaiian muscle fuck." (It looks like the Urban Dictionary agrees with him.) His other roommate was a skinny dude with a comical face who had apparently been to England once so he spoke with a fakey British accent & used obscure British words like "woofter" & "dosh." I don't remember either of their names.

What I do remember is the anglophile had a T Rex tape which had "Jeepster" on it (& since I liked Bowie, I already owned Electric Warrior), but also tons of other stuff that sounded nothing like the T Rex Bang A Gong rocker I knew. Later I'd find this stuff was by "Tyrranosaurus Rex," but it charmed me immensely. I stole the tape. I needed a reference point for what I'd be looking for. Anglophile suspected but had no proof.

That's when I fell in love with Marc Bolan, that tape, with songs about wizards & cats & child stars & abyssinia & apple girls & finding a little wood & having a little sleep. The tape's gone, & I haven't thought about my friend's roommates in many years. My friend is happily married with two kids.

I'm not sorry I stole the tape, though. I am sorry I lied to my friend about stealing the tape. I wonder if he even likes T Rex?

If I Wore A Weapon Like My Dear Old Dad

What did he wear? You mean, under the apron?

I am very sleepy because of the new life in our house, whose name is Winston, & who looks like this:



He's only three months old. He likes to play.

If you like to play old Self Help Radio shows, you may listen to last Friday's show over at selfhelpradio.net. Remember, KOOP is still having a pledge drive, so there'll be some beggin' within. I hope it makes you give my favorite radio station lots of money!.

I'm sorry I dozed off. I am sleepy. But if I wore a weapon, like my dear old dad...

Why There's Flossing In This Cruel World

Manservant Ripple finds his way through the echoing, gigantic house. Sentences flow sweetly from his collapsable lungs. The master smiles to himself - he remembers why he hired Manservant Ripple; & it is still a bargain.

In the basement, Manservent Ripple conspires. The beaujolais is eminently flammable. How many more must die for the bloodlust they call capitalism to leave this vale of tears? But his is not to reason why.

In the bedroom, the mistress dreams dream of Manservant Ripple. She is ashamed of her sad lust, but she has always wanted to touch a hunchback's hump. She cries tears of perserverance.

Did you know he was married? asks the farmer. Yes, his wife lives in the hovel on the corner, next to the hovel once owned by Orson Welles, it's true. She doesn't work, no. She's a shut-in.

But is there - be honest! - is there a difference between mental illness & a love of the fine arts? A difference between a political solution to a problem & the eating of uncooked flesh? Between religion & mockery?

How he wishes he could have wounded with words, does Manservant Ripple. His wife stares at the hovel next door greedily. If they lived anywhere near the mansion, they might see the fire yet rage. But they do not.

Manservant Ripple will apply now for another job.

Whither A Tribute To Tony Wilson?

One of the students I supervise at work asked me one day how I discovered so much music in my life. She correctly observed that commercial radio is repetitive, predictable & dull, & her main response was to keep listening to the same crap she's always been listening to (which seems to be mainly "classic rock"). I thought about it & told her that there are four main ways I set about discovering music (not including listening to some kind of radio, which of course is always a crap shoot &, the older you get, the less reliable unless you find a program you really really dig):

1) Find an artist you like. Find artists he/she/they have worked with, & look for their solo/other stuff.
2) With your artist as a reference, find musicians who have emulated or are otherwise influenced by the artist you like.
3) If it's a scene, start at the epicenter & work outward.
4) Look at other music on the label that the artist you like is on.

Number 4 isn't always a good strategy (Sire Records in the 80's come immediately to mind), but there are labels, then & now, whose output for the most part is controlled by & chosen by someone with really, really good taste. The Beatles had a pretty mundane taste in music, as the other artists on Apple Records showed; but Tony Wilson, one of the founders of Factory Records, obviously knew his shit.

He was there for three main trends in British independent rock: the postpunk of Joy Division, the dance-pop of New Order, & the Madchester sound of Happy Mondays. & certainly all three sounds continue to reverberate & influence music today & will doubtless do so for the rest of our lives. I wish I could say that decisions I made about musicians had such deep & lasting effects in the world of recorded sound.

Tony Wilson's death this year at 57 from cancer was a sadness. I want to celebrate his life on Self Help Radio this Friday. I'll do it by playing a sample of the music he chose to promote & share with the world.

Preface To The Tony Wilson/Factory Records Tribute: It's So Fun Up Here At The Death Camp

Two people have played Tony Wilson in a movie - Steve Coogan in "24 Party People" & Craig Parkinson in "Control" - & that doesn't count movies that Tony Wilson himself was in. You can see that here. Not that it means anything. Just sayin'.

I know he didn't start Factory Records all on his own, but he seems most visible & his recent, tragic demise (he wasn't even 58 years old) seems to say it's time to play lots of great music from his old record label.

He possesses one of those names (you know, the ones with four syllables) in which I can sing a made-up stanza to the tune of "Frere Jacques." I do this with my animals all the time. When you read this, though, you can pretend I am singing in tune:

Tony Wilson, Tony Wilson,
We miss you, we miss you
At the hacienda, at the hacienda
Boo hoo hoo, boo hoo hoo.

I could do that shit all night long. Provided you have a four syllable name. I myself (Ga-ry Dick-er-son) & especially my girlfriend (Mag-da Much-lin-ski) are out. My animals, though, survive by a combination trick:

George & Ringo, George & Ringo
You smell bad, you smell bad
Don't be eating dog poop, don't be eating dog poop
Like your dad, like your dad.

In heaven, you know, they don't allow this sort of doggerel. So we must make use of it here.

My Fascination With Poorly-Written Spam Is Terrifying Me

I love reading spam. I love when my computer tells me "The Website You Are About To Visit May Be Deceptive. Continue?" It's almost like it's calling me a pussy. Google does the same thing with the "This Website May Harm Your Computer" tag on some searches. It may as well just add, "Little Girl."

I hope you're supporting KOOP Radio during our Fall 2007 Membership Drive. I know I am. I doing the best damn radio show I know how.

Want proof? Listen to last Friday's show. It was a tribute to the late, great Syd Barrett. I was forced to drink half a bottle of whiskey afterwards. It was simply that good.

I have nothing else to say. But I do have three potential spam messages to read. This bodes ill, however - one of them appears to be from my mother. & she can certainly harm my computer.

My Llama Is So Llovely!

TODAY on Self Help Radio: Syd Barrett's musical masterpieces intrepreted by the ne'er-do-wells he influenced. Just so you can see his light shining through their work.

IT'S ALSO the first day of KOOP's Fall Membership Drive. I suggest you give all you can to the best radio station in Austin. Otherwise, what good are you?

I SHOULD ALSO MENTION I'll be a guest at the Coldtowne Theater's Stool Pigeon Improv Comedy Show tomorrow night (September 22) at 8pm. I'd love for you to come out & watch me be very nervous & ridiculous in front of you.

I DON'T KNOW WHY I keep capitalizing the beginnings of these sentences, but it does seem to make it more formal. Like every paragraph is the first paragraph of a book or something.

But it doesn't work the same way when you capitalize the last WORDS OF A SENTENCE.

It kinda makes you feel like you're being yelled at or somehow condescended to. That's icky.

BUT IF IT HAPPENS TO THE LAST SENTENCE, IT COMES ACROSS AS FINAL, LIKE IT'S A MORAL OR SOMETHING.

I Dreamed I Saw Syd Barrett Last Night

He was eating ice cream, & was quite old. He seemed a little alarmed when he noticed I was looking at him. I'm pretty sure it was in Manchester, & not in Cambridge, where he seems to have lived most of his life, but I'm sure I was remembering a place from the most recent "Prime Suspect." I told my girlfriend, who was well in the dream but sick in real life, I said, "That's Syd Barrett." She wanted to go up to him & thank him for writing "The Gnome," but I told her he looked uncomfortable, so she waved & smiled & we turned to go. He waved back, to Magda, not to me, but did not smile.

The dream turned into a kind of scary adventure as I raced bicycles on the highway, but I wasn't on a bicycle, I was swimming through the asphalt, kind of kicking it to make myself go.

That has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, though, but I think you're sweet to have read this far.

Whither Syd Barrett?

The truth is, I don't really care much for Pink Floyd. (I know, even typing this blasphemy has caused waves of consternation to fly through college dorms rooms all over the world.) I knew about Syd Barrett before I knew exactly what his contribution to Pink Floyd was - his name was much, much more powerful in the musical circles I was investigating than the name "Pink Floyd" was. (I kinda wish the same was true with John Lennon's name. He's so much more than a "Beatle.")

Years after I had "The Madcap Laughs" & "Opel," some friends made me listen to "Piper At The Gates Of Dawn." I confess I wasn't as charmed as I should have been. "See Emily Play," "Vegetable Man," "Arnold Layne" - those songs were much better (on first listen) than the stuff on the record. I figured it had something to do the bad influence of the rest of the band (as if they didn't play on the singles!). It took a while for me to warm up to that disc.

More than anything, though, I was impressed by the folks who were influenced by Syd Barrett - Dan Treacy, Robyn Hitchcock, Martin Newell - people whose work seemed to begin at the very moment they heard a Syd Barrett song. How could I not eventually embrace the (almost literally) crazy genius whose ideas became dreams for some many musicians I loved?

I was going to do a Syd Barrett tribute show last year (he died, you know, in July 2006) but other things intruded - & since it's been a year, & since it'll be a Membership Drive show, it can be as special as I want it to be.

More about Syd is located here. I don't know if one should feel sad about his life - I think he understood how much he meant to everyone, at least vaguely so. Instead, we should celebrate the explosive, endless creativity he unleashed into the world. I, for one, will do it on Friday.

Preface To The Syd Barrett Tribute: When To Use Wondercum?

I just got some spam in my gmail account & the email was titled "When To Use Wondercum?" I am not a Darren Stevens type so I don't pretend to know how to sell stuff to the people (although I'd totally marry a witch if I could & not be a total dillweed about it), but doesn't "Wondercum" sound like, well, super special ejaculate, & not a product that would perhaps increase your yield when you have an orgasm?

That seems like an unfortunate marketing decision. Perhaps they are getting advice from the Nigerian spammers, who don't seem to know I am unbeliever, since they write me, ask me for my bank account information, & talk a lot about God with me.

Another question is this: "Wondercum," assuming it's the latter explanation - something that makes a gentleman who's in the final stages of the sexual excitement process produce a lot more semen than his regular paltry load - is that something that's a real problem in the bedrooms of America? Maybe in the porn business, but in my experience, which is probably not terribly substantial, I've never had a partner say to me, "Is that ALL the sperm you're going to produce tonight? Where do you keep the Wondercum!"

This has nothing to do with Syd Barrett, whose life & music I'll be celebrating this week on the very first Fall 2007 Membership Drive Show, & who never had a single problem with the ladies. At least not before 1971.

Your Big Tears Do Not Scare Me

Sailor! You've never loved like this before! Did we last meet at the Emmys?

Are you hoping that we'll have a fine romance like the first time ever? This could perhaps be true, if you're willing to listen to these three things I am wishing to be telling you:

1) There was once upon a time a radio show in which the host & two "guest-like" personages expounded upon listening. To listen, you really must just go to a web page called Self Help Radio Dot Net. It is perhaps easier than most, but more noisy than some. The show would be the show which originally aired September 14, 2007. It is called "Listening."

2) Your tastes may be more refined, like crude oil which isn't yet so crude. There are other radio shows at Self Help Radio Dot Net, one of which is brand new, as the original aired only just yesterday. It was a show called "Jamaican Gold" & it featured an imaginary Gary thought of "What reggae music were the punks of 1977-1979 listening to?" So I played some lovely roots reggae & dub & stuff. Yes, it's also available at Self Help Radio Dot Net.

3) If you live in the Austin area & would like to see Self Help Gary (as the host of this show calls himself & his self), he (which is me, so I don't know why I am talking about myself in the third person) (I mean, I'm not a professional athlete) I will be the "stool pigeon" for this event happening at the Coldtowne Theater this Saturday. It may be worthwhile to see me be so publicly humiliated. I will talk more about this (how could I not?) in the near future.

Go now! Listen to radio shows! See if I care!

Tensions High! Start A Fire!

Hello, diligent workers. Do not be alarmed. This is not a drill. Arms outstretched, make sure you have a widow's space between you. I won't imagine you're talking today.

We called everyone in the factory floor to discuss hand-holding & other deviance within the ranks. Surely this must be opposed. What would your guardian angel think? I believe we hold each other responsible in this manner.

Further, the management would like to interest everyone. This is not nearly as energetic as one might suppose. As an example, let us bring out our top of the line. You see? Everyone here had a hand or foot in that.

As the morning turns to day, assuredly does the bone turn to fossil. We live ever so quirkily on a shifting conveyor belt of duty & responsibility. The alcohol takes what the Lord gives away. You know this.

Why then complicate the abject with the objectification of your fellow worker? Must we make stuffy government write the rules for us? They already have your dental records & your pet's DNA.

As management's eyes in the showroom & the restroom, we only want to stress what we have received on company letterhead: do not make us come down there & scold you. Let go of each other & hold hands with work!

You may take a few breaths before you return to your assigned tasks. We will not speak of this again. Tissues are being handed out by your supervisors. I think I got something in my eye. Excuse me.

Whither Listening?

In the land of the ears, the headphoned are sad. Ears were not born with headphones, but some have found them. Unable to control content or volume, these ears despair, & wish & hope for someone to help release them from the headphone bondage.

In the land of the eyes, there are some who never blink. "Dry-Eyes" they are called, but they do see everything. They see the sadness of the headphoned ears. They would tell the others, but the others communicate with blinks. & the Dry-Eyes never blink.

In the land of the noses, something smells strange. It's not a familiar smell - the noses love all the regular smells, from the sweet to the sour - this is a bad kind of strange smell. They lift their nostrils & wonder - is it coming from the land of the ears?

In the land of the mouths, there is singing, talking, eating, brushing of teeth. They don't notice anything. They never stop moving.

& in the land of the hands, the scene is touching. The hands care. The hand feel their way around, gently brushing fingers past mouths, noses, eyes, even the ears. The ears feel strange! The hands gingerly lift the headphones off the ears. The ears are free!

When the ears gratefully gather around the hands that rescued them, the hands - if only for an instant - can hear. The curious nostrils find their way to the curious celebration, as do the Dry-Eyes. The jumble is a party & as they congregate, the nostrils can see & the ears can smell & eyes can feel & of course the hands can hear.

& all of them think, in their freedom & joy, "Holy mother of fuck, don't those mouths ever shut the hell up?"

Preface To Listening: What About The Other Four Senses? Not "Radio Friendly"?

This is coming to Austin: the Austin Booger City Booger Limits Festival Booger. Except for maybe the Decemberists, whom I've seen live, & the National, whom I'd like to see at a smaller venue, I have zero interest in the band coming to this. I have actually zero interest in the event itself. I have only been to one or two "festivals" in my life, &, except for the fact that nice people gave me nice drugs there without really knowing me, it was hot, noisy, boring, & smelled like a toilet more often than not. So what's the draw?

I have a theory.

Life on the lonesome prairie was kind of lonesome, what with the prairie being big & wide & expansive, & also not a lot of people around, unless you count prairie dogs as people (& remember, dogs don't count prairie dogs as dogs), & so when there was a house fire, or a quilting bee, or a lynching, or a bible-beat-off, or some other community event, it was worth the seventeen day journey to the nearest town to just hang out. You might could even to get a bath.

All human societies, you will recall from our earlier lessons, began on the lonesome prairie. Except for the mountain folk who dwell beyond the night. But then they never make it to music festivals, so fuck them.

Years have passed, & the drugs have become more illegal, but even so, we live in the lonesome prairie of our own lives. Since we haven't yet discovered how to share our thoughts (or even, really, how to throw our voices), we are trapped evolutionarily on the lonesome prairily, & music festivals, even if they have to bring Bob Dylan back from the dead, remind us of those times.

Also, we're kind of snobbish fucks & we're envious of everything, so most certainly a town full of moronic hipsters will be ejaculating all over themselves for months for having "seen" so many "big names" at one time. It's as easy as Cheney hunting quail for them. It doesn't require any real work on their part, but now they can say, "Oh, sure, I've seen BLEH." I'm sure some of them might even get to have some superstar snort cocaine out of their ass. Those people are COOL.

But I still can't see the draw, so please, you can come to my slightly bloated city & make use of our facilities, but remember: you're really just a forlorn settler who's spent the majority of your life in a badly-built cabin in the middle of nowhere, scared most of the time about hurtful enemies & monstrous beasties, & all that the City Booger Austin Booger Limits Booger Festival is to you a chance to get away from the lonesome prairie which is your soul. You poor fucker.

What a theory! Just by writing it I got accepted into graduate school! Thanks boring trendoids! I hope to milk your pathetic posturing & grubby grasping into irrelevant pop culture paperbacks that you'll unironically embrace! Hooray!

My Brain Has Its Own Holes

In 1388, on the coast of France, then called Germany, three Pristinian Monks wearing dog collars & x-ray spex decided they no longer believed in a "catholic" god. They wanted laughter, fun, adventure, ha cha cha cha! & they certainly the fuck weren't going to get it in 14th century Germany.

They wrote a book, which they called "the Bible" - they wanted to piss people off - they were, in fact, the first performance artists - which to this day smells a lot like stale beer. The three monks outlined a festive way of living which can be enjoyed with only a minimal of fuss &, with aspirin, only a smallish hangover.

That philosophy became unpopular when priests with scary weapons killed the three monks, but it has experienced a resurgence today among born-again villains & crazy hippie children. Though no one outside the inner circle has seen "the Bible," leaked pages have been recovered, only to be thrown down in disgust when people realize they're called "leaked pages" because someone took a leak on them. So far no one has been eager to see the pages which are claimed to have be "wiped out."

This has nothing, however, to do with Self Help Radio, the radio show which, rather than spend a long time researching a topic & sharing deep, important knowledge on the air, took the easy way out last week, & totally faked a show about fakery. & no one was fooled!

Don't believe me? Listen for yourself at selfhelpradio.net. The entire show is there & shall be for a while, so please use it in whatever lawsuit you're currently involved with. Standard super saver shipping restrictions apply.

The story of the monks, by the way, is NOT a fake. It's a lie. Tell me what the difference is.

Dioxin For The Future Now!

Self Help Radio will be heard today on the radio. This is an incredibly good bit of luck, as I have spent a large amount of time listening to music in the hopes of playing it for unwitting strangers this very day. But the best bit of luck involves one of my favorite bands. They are a local band but they sound like they're from the future. Not that they sound like some space-rock, Devo-esque, or Star Wars Creature Cantina thing - or even Klingon opera, although this particular one is obviously an influence - this particular band sounds like they're from a magical future where every bit of music you hear is good & radio shows like mine are easy to make because all choices sound wonderful.

The band is called Luxuriator, & although they have told me they're imaginary, there's a realness in how much I really, really like them.

Why do I gush so? Because I have been thinking about a show about fakery - which I'm doing today - & out of the blue, the pink & blue Official Luxuriator Courier Moped left a song on my doorstep. Usually, it's a Flight Of The Conchords song - or maybe prank calls made to Robyn Hitchcock - but no, this time it was a new Luxuriator song! I had to dig out my eight-track - they like to give me songs on eight-track - but dig I did, discovering a song called "Fake=Fake."

Imagine my freaky joy when I realized that a theme I was working on had coincided with a song written by the best band in Austin! I was convinced they had broken into my house, so I changed the locks, drugged the cats & dusted the house for prints. (I found a really nice print of Van Gogh's Hairlips that I thought my girlfriend had thrown away.)

Now, of course, the show is coming, & I just wanted to say, "Hey! You might could hear it on their myspace page, but Self Help Radio is proud to play Luxuriator today!" I am pretty damn excited! You must be too!

That's today during Self Help Radio's idiotic examination of "fakery" from 4:30 to 6:00 pm CST on 91.7 fm KOOP, live on the web at koop.org & available archived over the weekend on selfhelpradio.net. If you miss it, you might be unable to digest beans for a week.

Why Not Spend Some Time In Your Own Thinking?

Good day. As propmaster for the "Self Help Radio," it behooves us all for gradually requesting the compensation required to adequately instill in the listener &/or reactor of quality audiophonic experience what we in the business call "understanding." There are, to avoid the constant activation of self-defeating jargon, what experts call "ten important steps" in a contrary assimiliation process for the betterment of a "Self Help Radio" as well as a "listener modification process." They would be, in order of numerical:

1) Condescension. Surely in what many would call a turbulent egotistic existence you must facilitate your own deference up to but not necessarily including hubris. We require this of any guest who may find him or herself within the confines of normal &/or common sensical entertainment adventures.

2) Carriage, or what the ancients called "mien." What's mien mean? It doesn't imply anything mean - in many ways, the average consumptive of the "Self Help Radio" merely gratifies the hitherto in what can only be described as a antithetical manner.

3) Craft. From a purely simplistic standpoint, aesthetic implies action, whereas passivity implies traction. For the engaged reporter of the "Self Help Radio" an appreciation of source & formatting is otherwise obligatory.

4) Cash. In case you want a snack or something.

5) Candor. We must not specifically be honest, but a measurable amount of embarrassingly confessional surely peppers the soup in whatsoever nakedness should be displayed to the public's chagrin.

Among these are of course other considerations which we shall not cardinally number for scriptural purposes. These would perhaps best be summarized:

6) Creature Comforts. For an empty house is a lonely house, which cannot specifically be called a home.

7) Celerity. For a show which is timed, one might sometimes feel a need to feed the seed of speed. Technically or counterclockwise.

8) Cursory brevity wit. As it means in the unoriginal Latin.

9) Castigation. Formerly the list specifically hinted at "confession," but a consultant confirmed the corruptness of the current clergical community (then & now), so a non-religious, if not entirely materialistic, form of self-reproach is to be preferred if not entirely designated.

10) Conference Call. Are you free Friday?

As the goalkeeper in the fundamental baseball grid of the "Self Help Radio," I welcome the extraneous & the commentary. I hope we've learned our lesson today & surely tomorrow whoever tunes in will have more of a sense of the gist than those whose reading skills, while languishing, have failed to meet the meagerest of expectations for online survey taking.

Please thank yourself for your participation.

Whither Fakery?

A newspaper headline in my gmailbox grabs my attention: "Once ravaged by war, now vacation spots". Do you need any more proof that life is an illusion?

Self Help Radio this week will celebrate & berate the deliberately not real.

I am not entirely sure why. But I am self conscious about it. Stop looking at me. These are my real feelings.