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The call of the murderbird, a comely feathered lass.

     “Getting offended by something on the internet is like choosing to step in dog shit rather than walk around it.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-15) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

This show (see above) includes /The Vengeance of Ulios/* by Edmund Hamilton (Weird Tales, 1935). The story begins six hours and fifteen minutes into the show, just after an article about the Prohibition-era ravages of Jamaica Ginger and then the song /I Got The Jake Leg Too/. Tens of thousands of people were crippled by a chemical put in the drink solely to make it legal to sell. It wasn’t the methanol, which was bad enough. And Ulios is mad because his wife and her boyfriend destroyed all of Atlantis just to cover their running off together, so he becomes kind of a immoral technological vampire like them and chases after them for 6,000 years. It has really nothing at all in common with the 2007 film /The Man From Earth/ but somehow I feel they go together, but not like /The Prestige/ and /The Illusionist/ do. Nor like /Lucky/ and /The Man Who Killed Hitler And Then The Bigfoot/.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

A Night at the Garden. (Found-footage documentary about a Nazi rally of 20,000 at Madison Square Garden in New York City in 1939.

Pexachu vs. Godzilla. (via EverlasatingBlort)

“A painting of a capybara in a field at sunrise.” Check. “A spider-giraffe chimera.” Check. “A clock that is also a strawberry.” Check.

Thai insurance company ad.

Pretty volcanos. Which reminds me, one time back during the paper /Memo/ I had made a display ad for a company that sold Konocti red pumice for driveway rocks, with a volcano in the background, of course, and, in front, the big bold italic line, “Your wife, the SEXUAL VOLCANO, wants a real lava rock driveway from [Company Name]!” Judy Brown rarely commented on my esthetic choices, for obvious reasons, but she liked that particular ad. She said softly, “I would like it if somebody called me a sexual volcano.” Now I’m thinking about the comic teevee series Robin Williams made just before he strangled himself to death; it was The Crazy Ones, about an ad agency in Chicago and their creative ideas to sell things. It was ambitious, pretty good, but sad from our knowledge of the future; you can see through the professional zaniness how unhappy he was. I showed Juanita part of the first episode and she started crying.

Font that changes as you type each letter.

The Lazy Goat String Band – Sandy Boys.

Star Wars karaoke. Go on, you know you want to. (via EverlastingBlort)

Another angle on the Shitstain Rebellion.

Train with giant cat.

Train on water.

An inside view of the actually very dangerous lion costume dance. When he jumped up onto the poles I whimpered, NO!

Who could’ve seen that coming?

How the snake climbs a smooth metal tree.


Things that fit.

Joy. It actually doesn’t look like a dinosaur head. It looks like Gumby’s friend Pokey, but with teeth.

Ragtime Satisfaction.

Beauties of the past, colorized and oddly animated by A.I., which makes them all look like the cameraman told them to do 17 times 34 in their head and then doublecheck it.

Art of whaling.



It’s nice, but I don’t see why it works. What keeps it from just flying off?

This was 1992. So. (via EverlastingBlort)

So we understand each other, then.

“Gol’ blame me if I don’t think this thing is gonna work out pretty good, at that! Heh-heh. Yeah. Heh-heh-heh.” (That’s near the very end.)

The end of rural Irish phone boxes. (20 min.)

Letter B karaoke.

Clockwork bird sound maker.


Cyriak’s latest.


Capitalism is not okay.

A Free European Woman.

Luca Stricagnioli’s latest.




How squid fly.

Crazy goddamn kids.

The sprue-master.

The Moon’s Not That Great.

Red pill! Red pill!

Every building on Sunset Strip since 1966.

Starlings over Geldermasen (say kel-tuh-mah-s’n).



And The Longest Johns – The Wellerman (in 360-degrees; if your phone can do this, it is the coolest thing).


Chickens come home to roost.

     “Trump’s behavior raises a thorny constitutional issue: can a criminal be prosecuted for committing crimes?” -Frank Conniff

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-08) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

This show (see above) ends with the annual reading of Brad Watson’s story, /Aliens In The Prime Of Their Lives/. That’s almost two hours long and starts a little after six hours into the show, right after the lady Mongolian hip-hop throat singer (see below).

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

The the way it used to be. Charles Tyler was the lead singer of Dada. Here’s a short set of that band from one night at the Caspar Inn in 1982, with pictures all over it of Dada and some of the other wonderful Community School bands, and the local music scene and just Mendocino in general in the 1980s. How young everybody was. It seemed so real. And you, and you, and you were there.


Country version of Baby Got Back.

Moon Zero 2. (100 min.)

Massive Dancing Queen.

He’s like a marionette dancing.

I can’t hear the one with the washers on strings but the rest is coming through loud and clear.

That’s a good question. Why /is/ it always weasels with these guys?

Okay, my world is complete. Every facet of this piece of art is perfect. I think I sprained a wince-smile muscle.

Here’s why this guy would only buy a lousy Fram oil filter if it was the last oil filter on Earth:

The Wall of Lies.

Silent video of the Nashville Winnebago event.

Follow all your dreams at once.

“Sweet bugger-all happening here. Sweet. Bugger. All.”

If you eat the apple you will know all things, the knowledge of Morse code, drill bit specialties, photographic white balance, cigars, bass guitar chords, knots, and divers’ hand signals.

A snapshot of the present.

Lest we forget the horrors.

A little trip down memory lane. From 2016, in the Before Time.

The official state dinosaur of each state that has one. So far. California seems to have got the Pontiac Aztec of dinosaurs. Who picked that one?

The amazing bicycle girl again. Though technically they should call her a woman. Time passes. She’s twenty-six years old now.


Photographic art. (via EverlastingBlort)

Randy Rainbow’s latest:

There it is. Worse than Watergate. By a mile. (You might have to click the sound on.)

Watch out.


Luna Lee’s latest.

These kids in the Philippines figured out a way to do million-dollar-camera-array bullet-time film effects with one phone. First they show you how they did it, then they show you the result.

How we get dots and dashes.

There’s an old phrase that comes to mind: too stupid to live. But what if the dog isn’t stupid. What if this was a fun game for it, to make the man happy.

“Dave. Who turned out the lights.”

Impressive presence of mind. Unless she was a ringer, a performer set up for this. But even so.

Fire trains. (via EverlastingBlort)

Guy in VR talks about his worst day as a soldier. (20 min.)

How penguins move it right along.

The average colors of objects in our solar system. They look like the colors of things rich people would buy. Dishes, maybe, and car seats, and maybe like if they’re /really/ rich they’d have the engine block and the valve covers painted two-tone in a couple of these colors.

Grated cheese. Why not?


Wild birds fly to a man’s hand for food all in slow motion.

Amazing photos. Page through the whole gallery. (View 44 images.)

Documentary of mountain folk music. (12 min.)

Fascinating experimental journey to develop a climbing vehicle of Lego parts.

Silhouettes on the shades.

Beans, Gentlemen. With a side of Popular Problem.

An intelligent condom sales display.

The Berwick witches and King James.

Trailer for a show about the history of swears.

They must be getting their information from someone very smart.

Ear training. Scroll down and hear (and read) them all.

Nothing creepy at all about this. It is all for God’s glory.

Man trains teams of goldfish to play football with their nose.


Japanese synchronized walking.

Exactly what it says on the tin: It /is/ quite interesting.

Amazing Russia.

“Rap throat-singing female.” We can all agree with the commenter who wrote simply, “Legit.”

“We have lost the picture portion of our pictshmission. Technicians are working on the problem.”

And next year.





The versatile interrobang.

     “There is a part of Mount Everest known as the Rainbow Valley. It is named not because there are rainbows there, but because of the brightly-colored jackets on the frozen corpses that litter it.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-01) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Angels, whether they exist or not, which they don’t any more than leprechauns or pookas, also don’t look like you thought. Angels were actually nightmare monsters of collections of massed eyeballs and feathers and fire (or ice) and mashed-together animal and bird heads, at least if you’re getting your information from the Bronze Age drug beatniks who wrote the Bible.

Some more from these three hard-driving little dancin’ Dutch girls.

Mask striptease. Don’t be drinking Pepsi when you watch this, or just swallow it first. Or do what you want; I’m not trying to tell you what to do.

Not CGI. These are real robots. The quadruped one using its arm and hand to mouth the words of the song makes me think of the Pierson’s Puppeteers, a race of creatures in Larry Niven’s science-fiction future history. They had two arms, though, with a mouth-hand at the end of each one. The brain, like the brains of General Dynamics robots, was in the torso, in the center of mass, like the bridges of Star Trek starships should have been. Why expose the brains and controls and most important functions in the position of an obvious bulls-eye for enemy guns?

How we get rose petal cigarettes, which beat last week’s asbestos-tipped ones all hollow in the health department, but which remind me, maybe because of the vivid color and intimacy of a cigaret, of an uncomfortable scene in an old Steve Martin movie that stuck in my mind, where the camera goes in close on where he puts lipstick around his wife’s nostrils in order to get an erection. I know that different people like different things, but thinking about that just makes me wince, even though nobody was being hurt. The characters in that story were so helplessly bleakly unhappy all the time. I wonder if there’s something about me and my life that someone else might wince about. Hmm. Anyway, cigarets:

Massive murmuration.

Cool insects flying in slow motion.

Wok this way.

Careful who your friends are.

…Here’s a lot more of that sort of thing.

Old film of Gemini 4 EVA fixed up clean. (via b3ta)



A successful small Japanese rocket motor test.

POV: toy train. It’s neat when it goes inside the world. I like the inside part as much as the outside part. When I was little in the L.A. area my mother was a real estate agent, and she must have sold houses to and for teevee and film people because I remember the backs and other-sides of houses and house-parts on sets in movie lots. Why not look around you right now and imagine the other side of everything you see being unfinished, with the side facing you just a facade. Certainly the walls are like that, and the other side and inside of the ceiling and the floor. I’ve spent enough time under houses and in crawlspaces and tight attics doing plumbing and wiring and so on, and I never liked to /be/ inside or under things, but just looking at it is okay and, as I said, neat. It’s too bad they don’t have a cat.

Speaking of the underpinnings and insides of things: Athens 2,500 years ago.

“There are sandwiches and sandwiches.” Why can you never starve in the desert? Because of all the sand which is there. Why do they call camels the ships of the desert? Because of all the Arab seamen in them. Try the veal.

Restoration. What a beautiful color. In the very early 1980s I paid an extra $20 at Earl Scheib on Arden Way ($79.95 instead of $59.95) for that color paint on my 1963 Rambler Classic, very like this one. When that car died utterly, every part of the motor and drivetrain and brakes and all hopeless, it still looked like a gem, and the next-door neighbor bought it just to leave it in his barn and sit in it with his wife. True story.

“No single rock band in the ’90s was playing better chess against their audience.”

Tina Weymouth.

Yo-yo tricks explained employing slow motion.

“This is what happens when you find a stranger in the Alps!” That isn’t what he said, really. That’s what they dubbed in instead so they could play it on teevee. Here’s just that part. And here is an Alp, for comparison. A single Alp.




Several short Bill Plympton cartoons suggested by Donald’s actual statements.

Ode to Yoy.


Giant ethereal projected Van Gogh exhibit. (say van GOFF) (“It must be real tough on Vincent van Gogh when those in the know call him Vincent van Gogh, for unless I’m way off it’s Vincent van Gogh.”)

Art of true death scenes.

And a shoebox of old photographs. I have questions about some of them. The double-exposure with the noose, for example. It used to be that every thrift store had a box of random families’ old photographs all mixed up together because people would die with no family and the estate sale people wouldn’t want to throw them away. For many reasons, I’m sure you can think of a few, that resource has dried up, and it’s a shame, because there are all sorts of creative uses for old photos. I had one for a long time that I remember getting for 15 cents, a professional photo of a pretty, young woman of about a hundred years ago now. It said in pen, “Delia, love, Glady.” Remind me to tell you sometime the incredible story of the headstone of Elizabeth Vivian.


More gauze.

     “Put your finger on this knot, please.” “All right, but don’t do anything funny.” “I’m not doing anything funny, I’m sewing up the patient. It’s you who starts these things.” “All right, all right.” “Oh, I do love you so.” “Please. Please let go of my finger. I knew you were going to do something like this.” “Don’t pull back! I do, I love you, I love you.” “Let go of my finger.” “Don’t pull back, you’re pulling the stitches.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-25) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

There’s everything for Xmas and its aftermath in this show that your quarantine bubble will ever need.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Cigarets from Santa. “What a treat! A carton (or two) of Lucky Strikes!” (via EverlastingBlort)

You want to start crying from watching young people be great at something? Here, knock yourself out.

Further: Bike Girl.

Nichols and May – More gauze. Part of what I like about this is imagining Ferren and Jill Taylor doing the sketch, just right on top of the microphone, their cheeks touching. (Hi, Ferren! Hi, Jill!)

This instrument was invented in the 1920s. It’s full of radio tubes. The keyboard was originally painted on solid wood and the whole thing was played by pulling the thumb ring left and right on a string; this one is a later model where the keyboard is really a keyboard too.

Xmas is over, huh? Don’t be sad, little guy. Every day is Xmas at Tex and Edna Boil’s Organ Emporium. A free interstate-contraband budgie with every organ, isn’t that a fine thing, Edna. It sure is, Tex.

Tom Waits – Up For Santa. Including /Frosty, Frosty, Frosty the Haunted Snowman/.

Further adventures in Yeshuidical pareidolia.

Flying over X. (via EverlastingBlort)

Il viaggio de babbo natale.

A sweet little true story by Weird Al Yankovic. It’s not ruined at all by noticing that his childhood crush looked just like his mother, and there’s nothing wrong with that, people look like other people; sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. (via Neatorama)

Use a predictive text engine to generate your own story. Wait a moment for word choices to appear, then choose one, then another, and go from there. Fun. It’s like fridge magnet poetry.

Ah. That explains it, then. I guess I’ll have to wait till there are grapes in the store again. There used to always be everything because this is America and we had armored grasping tentacles all over the world, but that system is breaking down somewhat now, fraying at the edges, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I can wait awhile to get two grapes to try this myself.

The others are nice, but I like number 26 the best.

“The most magically magical of any magic square ever made by any magician,” said Ben Franklin modestly.

“Hooliga, hooliga, wadawee! Hooliga, hooliga, wadawee!”

2020’s top cup stackers. They’re so good at it that the video can’t even keep up– their hands are a blur. This is a super-power-level of skill they’ve worked hard to develop and it’s /thrilling/, mostly because it makes them so happy. It’s competitive, but they’re just as happy for each other’s accomplishments as for their own. (28 min. of cup stacking virtuosity, with the speed times in order of better, often just /thousandths of a second/ better.)

“I resolve to put a dog on the moon.” (Technically that’s been done: Snowy, in a dog space suit, in /Tintin: Explorers on the Moon/.) I wonder what happened to my dog-in-a-space-suit t-shirt. That was my favorite shirt. I’ll bet somebody at the laundromat stole it. They stole all Juanita’s underwear once.

I think that in California you can get arrested for doing this. Or maybe it’s just if you take a pebble or shell or something home. Maybe it’s okay.

Once in a Hit and Run Theater show Harry Rothman sang the words to the Bonanza theme song, and it went, “I got a right to pick a little fight, BONANZA. Anybody fights with anybody else, first you gotta fight with meeee.” And I looked it up, and those aren’t the real words. Here are the words to The Mandalorian theme song.

Do you want to know how many people are in front of you in line before you can get the vaccine? It might be a lot and it might be a little. Find out.

How to spend your $600 stimulus check.

I remember showing this to you a long time ago. I just saw it again, and I have to repeat: I love the young couple at 3:05. They’re perfect together, completely on the same page, and they’ll be happy together for the rest of their lives. They are how people should be. And the curly-haired woman in the dark blue one-piece. “No. I don’t have the guts,” she says. She goes to the ladder to go back down, steels herself, goes back up, gathers her will, and calmly steps off, and good for her! (It’s way too high for me; I could never do that. There is no shame in going back down the ladder. Could there be anything more unnatural to the brain than stepping off a cliff –except in a dream. Bill Hicks said of blaming drugs for people jumping out a window, “If you’re ever on drugs and you think you can fly, try it from the ground first. Don’t give drugs a bad name.”)

Researchers laugh at the funny-looking sea creature, but they’re safe, for now, high above in a boat, from its ever catching their nose in whatever those things are in its front (or rear) and teaching them a lesson about respect.

This is like when three children in a cartoon stand on each other’s shoulders so the child on top’s head and arms stick out through the collar and sleeves of the single long coat they’re all inside in order to fool a ticket booth person and get into some adult place. Or even more like the race of intelligent alien snakes in Christopher Baldwin’s webcomic Spacetrawler who mass together in a lump to impersonate larger creatures.

“You’re my present this year.” An oral history of the warmly creepy Folgers incest ad.

Parker Posey in /House of Yes/.

Darth by Darthwest, Part 2.

Is the baby Spiderman or Strong Bad? It’s shaped like Strong Bad. (via EverlastingBlort)

“Holy shit. Oh, my goodness. No way. Holy shit. No. Noooooo. Holy shit.” [POW] “Oh, my fucking god. Oh.” (Eyewitnesses on the scene.)

Leftover fireworks.

Bits&Pieces’ caption is, as they say in French, exactement (say ek-ZAC-t’MOH): “What could possibly go wrong?” It turns out that a thousand bicyclists crashing into each other silhouetted on a bright icy ski slope as seen from a helicopter look like a traffic jam of ants on wax paper in a toilet. It’s like the part in the radio show /Chuck Frank, Private Op/, from the Albion Whale School to KKUP through the phone lines, in 1986, where Chuck (or Clarisse) is looking down from the high private detective office window on the teeming noir city and he (or she) says, “How can they live like that? Why, they look like ants.” And she (or he) says, “They /are/ ants.” Then he (or she) says in internal narrator voice, “I flicked one from my shoulder with a perfect scarlet nail.”

I don’t know how to really think about this. The kid has lived long enough to develop an amazing and spectacular skill, sure, but quit while you’re ahead. Meaning, quit before you do it again, while your head is still attached to the rest of you with all the important plumbing and wiring intact and nothing poking out or bending in a direction it’s not meant to go.

And this. The drone shots following him are really like flying in a dream, and they make it look like /he’s/ flying in a dream, and it’s wonderful, but it’s so dangerous. At least when this guy’s luck runs out he won’t be crushed by a tumbling 900-pound pound vehicle and might only be relatively harmlessly impaled on a handlebar, say.

Here’s some more of that sort of thing. This one has some stretches of paths cut into a cliffside that are completely terrifying; suppose he just faintly catches his handlebar on the rock face at the inside of the path, for example. The fish-eye lens makes speed seem greater, but it’s still crazy. And the knife-edge rock ridges…

Remove the danger entirely, then. It’s just as nice. But I’m old, so I would think that.

This is real. It’s a heavy-equipment operator, in between tasks, playing with a retired Lear-jet. (via BoingBoing)

Dinosaurs in love. Click the sound on. (via EverlastingBlort)

Bob Dylan on the CBC in 1964. (30 min.)

Musical theory in 16 min. I finally get the circle of fifths, and you will too.

Found things. (via Fark)


Here’s a comic strip from 2014 about the /real/ moochers.

Rerun: “So! While Sheena’s being electro cured let’s see what Peter won… That’s right! It’s fuel!”

Penny Can. I don’t know who these people are or what the show they’re in is. Maybe one of them is named Penny Can. That would make sense. Eventually she’d snap and murder them all and they’d be like, “What? Why? We thought you liked it,” and expire. (If I had a quarter for every time I told my name to someone at a counter and some kid behind him at the taco assembly station yelled /POLO!/ and they all started laughing like schoolkids laugh at the skinniest or fattest boy in the shower room, I could wash my clothes any time I wanted to. I can anyway, but I wouldn’t have to go to the store first and get quarters; I could just scoop them out of a bag by the door. No jury in the world would convict Penny Can.)

Spoiler alert. (via EverlastingBlort)

The impressive fake dome of the church of Saint Ignatius.

Everything from the world’s smallest wind instrument to the lady’s leg comb to the Wonder Glove Monkey (Cloth, 15 cents. In real mohair, 45 cents):

I had been been ignoring this link algorithmically appearing everywhere, because from the thumbnail image I thought it was the brilliant one about space alien abductees (that ends with “Tell me ’bout God. What’s God’s deal?”) that I remember watching over and over to memorize it, and/or the sequel, but this is one I’d never seen: it’s still Kate McKinnon and the same structure but it’s about paranormal phenomena. Oh! And then after that you get to see the alien abduction ones too, so this is your lucky day. Every day’s your lucky day when you smoke Lucky Strikes– aaaand we’re back up at the top again with Santa Claus. Santa Claus delivering cartons of delicious cigarets with a cigaret dangling from the corner of his mouth, which was considered an invitation to sexual intercourse in the old days, especially in a woman who had gone overboard in the lipstick department and colored outside the lines. Oops, sorry, paranormal, stay on track here:


Context collapse.

     “Just because they smile and eat chicken doesn’t mean they have mastered their emotions.” -T’Pol, to Archer, about a band of odd renegade Vulcans, one of whom within mere hours proved her correct by mind-raping her and infecting her with an MTD

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-18) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

In the show above you’ll hear John Sakowicz’ poetry in Polish, minus the Polish, as well as Douglas Wayne Coulter’s poetry; a traditional Alex Bosworth story but updated; the first in a new series of stories about dogs Zeke Krahlin has known; Werner Herzog embellishes and annotates The Night Before Christmas to now have bats (fledermäuse); some history explaining how we get into messes like the mess we’re in and how we got out of them, or didn’t get out, the last few times around; gene and brain and space and Earth science; art decryption; lifesaving tips and tricks; Paul Modic’s lyrically self-deprecating memory of every natural sex act he ever had, including nearly his whole rolodex of client names and detailed statistics; there is a recording of Riantee’s (don’t say RAIN-tree’s, rather say ree-on-TAY’s) children’s story /Mimi the Cat/ read soothingly gently and slowly by professional Toni Birnbaum as if she’s reading to a small sleepy person sitting in her lap, and of course the usual panoply of useful, whimsical, educational information, much of it arguably essential, on all the subjects of the rainbow including the so-called Color out of Space and angles Euclid never knew, which do not in fact cause madness, that’s a myth. You know what drives you mad? I’ll tell you what drives you mad: the gas-powered leaf-blower from hell outside at nine o’clock on Saturday morning drilling into your head when you’ve been up all night on the radio, cleared up odds and ends, brushed your teeth and finally got to sleep, after a week of dealing with getting your car fixed for almost the entire car’s replacement cost because thieves hacked the catalytic converter out from under it probably right when you were blithely doing your radio show /last/ week and you didn’t find out about the damage until you’d put all your stuff in the car on Sunday night and started it to go back to Albion for work, and you probably woke everybody /else/ up in the whole apartment complex with the profound unmuffled exhaust noise of that, and now you have to be all paranoid about anybody being around in the parking lot who you don’t know by name and even some you do, because what if it was them? What if it was that nice guy who folded your clothes so he could dry his when you forgot to go get them that time? What if it was someone in the pay of some right-wing rich fellow who got pissed off at something funny he heard you say on the radio and said, low and menacing, or cheerful and sneering, “Here’s fifty and some tools, go fuck with that guy, use your imagination, show him what’s funny.” See? Madness. And it occurs in an endless chain. How do you think they got the way /they/ are? Besides drugs, sure; they’re probably all on drugs. I remember one time years ago when I was in the City for some holiday conference seminar thing –nothing to do with drugs; it wasn’t an AA or NA meeting or anything like that; it was a serious scholarly whatchacallit– and I realized that I was the only person at the big table or in the room or maybe two miles in every direction who wasn’t obviously on drugs. I think that might have something to do with everyone acting  like irresponsible juvenile delinquents, and not just lately, witness our glorious leaders throughout history. For the first two-thirds of the American experiment nearly everyone was drunk nearly all the time, and now they may not be drunk all the time but they’re high or mood-or-conscience-modified on something else. I can understand why a child would see a thing he wants that belongs to someone else who’d really miss if it was gone, and the child looks around to see if anyone’s looking and just breaks it off and takes it. You’re supposed to grow out of being like that. I’m not really sure, because I don’t have a ton of experience with drugs, liquid, solid or vaporous, because I never liked any of them that I tried, but I think everyone being on drugs all the time might have something to do with not growing out of things they should grow out of, and with stealing my catalytic converter, dang them to heck.

After I wrote that, the leaf blower finally shut off, all the leaves presumably having been moved a few steps to the left and then back again. So the giant stupid motorcycle in the apartment block across the industrial yard started, and I guess its master was adjusting the carburetor or something because it banged away, idling high and low and occasionally revving up, sounding like a string of M-80s going off (that’s on purpose; there is no mechanical reason why a motor a third the size of a quiet car motor has to be as loud as a jackhammer) for another half an hour. It was still going when I got back from walking to the store. Whatever they were adjusting about it didn’t improve it any. I’ve said this before and it bears repeating: If a policeman can give a $350 ticket to someone for playing his car stereo too loud, he should be able to give a $350 ticket to a motorcycle every time it drives by loud enough to hurt your head… Maybe that’s it: maybe people who have that kind of motorcycle are deaf and otherwise desensitized now and just don’t notice it anymore, and it’s pleasant, like Laurie Anderson’s /bees on a warm summer day/ to them. Or maybe they enjoy the sensation of terrific sound pressure levels loosening the sticky phlegm in their bronchial tubes so that at last they can really cough.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly jumbo-size pack of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Speaking of context: “A headless angel playing a lute and the three wise men atop some insane-looking camels were rejected.”

The weight.

Art observing itself. My favorite is the one with the blue-clad man and blue painting on the left and the Goth-attired woman and her matching Gothic interest on the right. Or maybe the pigtails that suggest the carved golden frame. Juanita’s favorite is the one with the matching silver cloth draped over the matching butt. (via Fark)


Kind of hard to look away, isn’t it? This reminds me, science has established that if you set a picture or painting of someone looking directly into the camera, or a mannequin with a face, or even just a picture of an eye, much less a real camera, prominently where it can be seen from outside through a store window, you get way less shoplifting there, and vandals are very much less inclined to break that window. Also, I find I can clearly imagine the woman’s voice and what kind of dog she’d have if she only had one.

Record Jenga balance tower. That table must be bery heavy. The slightest vibration would make this project impossible.

Jerry Murad’s Harmonicats. These guys were on Lawrence Welk a few times that I remember, and they were performing on stage through the 1980s when they were very old. The harmonica promotes cardiopulmonary health, just like the big brass instruments. If you don’t have stroke because of the pressure you just go on and on like an ancient Galapagos turtle.

Ze Frank true facts: army ant riders.

The philosophy of the push latch mechanism.

Wax on, wax off. (via EverlastingBlort) (Click the sound on.)

Traditional Japanese fastener-free and glue-free wood joinery.

The history of the guitar. (Almost an hour. Very worth it.)

The Riddler’s riddle (and sorrow and shame).

I repeat: That explains it, then:

Blob opera. Watch the tutorial or just poke at it until you figure it out. I love this musical toy. It won’t work on my work computer but it works fine on my phone. And you can record your compositions and play them back! A wonderful toy.

Sometimes I used to take my glasses off like that and enjoy pretending to be that upset. I can really be that upset now. That’s how you get to Carnegie Hall.

Auroras (plural) Australis.


Trailer for upcoming /Shadow in the Cloud/. I know I will like a story about a competent fearless woman saving the day and the world despite the silly arrogant goofball men who just get in her way. Think Peggy Carter: Agent of Shield, or Ripley in the Alien franchise, or that warrior valkyrie woman in The Mandalorian, which I haven’t seen this year of yet; don’t tell me anything about it. And flying werewolves, like the Swiss flag, are a big plus.

Speaking of which, the trailer for Wonder Woman ’84.

Macaws doing what they’re supposed to do, where they’re supposed to be, wings intact.

Video of the sea angel under the ice. It’s a kind of slug.

And the sea bunny, also a kind of slug.

And a jerk possum. Maybe turn the sound on; though all you hear is trickling water it enhances the effect. (via EverlastingBlort)

Kinetic sculptures.

Art. (via EverlastingBlort)

So much fun for them.

I remember reading about this idea from the 1930s. It’s still a great idea. Airplanes can always take off and land into the wind. It minimizes danger of crashing into other planes. It makes everything easier, and the entire airport doesn’t have to be any bigger. You just have to move a little dirt around, but you have to do that anyway.

I adore this crazy angry dog. It can yawn and growl angrily at the same time, it’s that angry.

…It reminds me of The Angriest Dog In The World. By the way, David Lynch is /David Lynch/, the filmmaker.


Sassy Justice. The story of the best little reindeer.

Ballsy reporter.

Every movie cough. Oh! There’s the little girl in Tarsem Singh’s /The Fall/. (via EverlastingBlort)

1000-mousetrap chain reaction in slow-motion. Show starts at 6:30.

A deeply educational ad for a new game.

Drill sergeant. I wish the camerperson had been closer to her, for the sound.

Randy Rainbow’s latest.

Video charting culture by movement of notable people. (via Dr. Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

What a great idea: put asbestos dust in cigarets to protect you from the tobacco.

Just spitballing here, but…

I almost can understand this. That’ll have to be good enough. (via b3ta)

The 1950s Jennings Univox.

Study this and think about what it means. (Click on map to magnify.) And/or place your cursor over the map to read the hover-text.

And a short film about the man who invented wind-up clacking teeth, the bubble gun, hula-dancing solar-powered plastic window plants and 800 more things we all use every day. /I love it that this man exists./ He invented the gun-in-the-hat. (That was a regular cowboy hat where, if some other nine-year-old cowboy came up behind you with a cap-gun six-shooter (with paper roll caps, more like a hundred-shooter, though every fourth or fifth cap didn’t work right) and said, “Stick ’em up!”, you could turn around to face him, politely take your hat off and turn it upside down, the way you just naturally do, and a little cap-gun would pop up out of it on a spring-lever and automatically shoot the kid who was robbing you.) He didn’t invent the /original/ large Galapagos turtle with revolving clockwork eyes and extra string, but he popularized one affordable by the masses. The Vac-U-Form set. Battling Tops. Kerplunk! (the game). You’ll see all that and more here. (20 min.)

Alien’s medical visit, showing exactly what’s wrong. When I was a boy and you went to the doctor because your foot was broken (ow) or you were thinking of suicide or you couldn’t stop coughing, the doctor looked down your throat, listened to your breathing, maybe took some blood or spit and looked at at under the microscope and gave you a shot or a bottle of pills; set the bones, mixed the plaster and put the foot in a cast; asked you what the problem was that you were upset about and told you some tricks to get by until your mind settled, and did it all quickly and competently and seemed like he’d be happy to see you again later to see how things turned out and maybe cut the cast off with a pipe saw right there in his little house office. And if there was a weird thing growing on your hand he’d cut it off, sew it up, put a bandage on it and tell you not to get it wet. Now if you have a weird thing growing /anywhere/ on you they tell you to make an appointment with the weird-growing-thing doctor twelve miles in the other direction, and the appointment is entirely in the next season, and when you finally see them, if you live that long, they poke at at and say, “That’s not a big deal,” because look how long you lived with it, worried, so /now/ of course it’s not a big deal,and it’s $875 just for looking, which your insurance only pays $600 of, when your doctor could have cut it off in a minute in the first place and sewed it up in three minutes and told you don’t get it wet for awhile, and you might have a scar but it’d be a cool scar.

NewAtlas pointed me to this flickr set of curated Hubble images. Scroll down.

Wander around in real time in an infinite procedurally generated city. That’s a thing you can do now. This is just a video, though. (in BoingBoing)

This was two years ago. They’re all still on the force. They still haven’t even been /interviewed/ about it, much less disciplined in any way. It’s nice that one of them got her a coat and a blanket, that was sweet, but I hope this woman sues the whole city for $473 million dollars and actually gets it.


Time travel twins.

Time-lapse project. In the making-of video: “And then I line up my ears. Then my nose. Sometimes it looks like my ears are too far apart because I am actually facing forward too much, and that makes my head bigger in the frame. /Then/ I can do my nose.”

“A favor I’ll ask, however,” she said. “Pluck not the flowers. The price is your head!”


Les Paul and Leo Fender were friends. Who knew? Everything about this video is interesting. (35 min.)

That’s probably it. Sure, why not.

Orbits with no math.

It sounds like a Jewish wedding song.


Watch a rug be cleaned by people who aren’t being paid by the job but rather by the hour.

Watch him clean their clocks. That’s an old-fashioned way of saying /beat them up/. With his car.

Watch metronomes get their periods in sync.

Watch, and listen to, beavers eat. This is probably the most peaceful thing you’ll experience for the next quite a while.

Watch a tomato rot. Unrot. Rot. Unrot. It’s like where Jeffers’ mind-cloud has been rejected, for attitude, by the InfoSphere of the Red Shiny Robots of Vortis in the British space opera /Hyperdrive/. To perturb navigator Vine he enters and leaves his own corpse, saying telepathically, “Alive… and dead again… And alive… and dead again.”

Watch a pine cone blossom. Or simply dry out, whichever you like.

Watch a kid unicycle, hula hoop, balance a spinning plate on a stick on his nose and juggle bowling pins, all at the same time. Imagine the pattern of electrical activity in his brain while this is going on.

The miracle of Xmas.

Precious little snowflakes.

And so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye, until next week.


The wheel of schmegegge.

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-11) Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show on KNYO-LP Fort Bragg (CA).


Besides all that, here’s a fresh batch of links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right. (They changed how WordPress works, so I’ve been experimenting with not bothering to painstakingly make all the links open in separate tabs. So if you go anywhere you’ll have to press the back button to come back here. If you don’t like it this way,  please let me know so I can smile with one corner of my mouth and consider, for an instant, then reject going back to doing it the hard way that’s taken an extra twenty-five minutes of foofing around with it every week for twenty years. But for you? Sure. Of course.)

Explaining the aurora.

You can feel these titles and photographs massaging and improving your brain.

“Let’s put Christ back in Christmas.” The aspect ratio is not right. It makes the guns look like cigaret-lighter guns. You kids are too young, you don’t remember, but they used to be all over the place. It was a smooshed-looking little gun that you’d point at your own face and shoot fire at the cigaret in your mouth. You could refill it with regular lighter fluid, and when it stopped sparking you could buy a little cellophane envelope of flints from the store to fix it with. You had to use tweezers, and even then it was iffy; they gave you five tiny flints and you always lost four of them in the rug. But back then everything only cost a nickel anyway. A loaf of bread. A harmonica. A radio tube. Everything was a nickel. If you were a millionaire in those days you could buy a whole town. Also music was /music/, it wasn’t just a bunch of punks hanging around the gas station banging on pots and pans.


Holiday-time rerun: The Dundee Sisters.

Happy Pearl Harbor day after day after day anymore.

Maps of election results if electoral votes were apportioned by other forms of gerrymandering besides congressional districts. (Scroll down.)

Summon the pointer and the point.

Sachal Studios Orchestra – Take Five.

Luca Stricagnoli’s latest.

Worst responder.

“Bitch, this is your life now.” That’s the part where I really burst out laughing. I mean, it’s all funny, but I just always get a kick out it when kids swear. It improves any joke. (In related news, Scotland just announced menstrual products are provided for free to young women there. A good idea.)

I skipped you ahead to the launch. Early on in the flight problems develop. See if you can spot them. Ah, there it is, see? And things really begin to go south at about 1:49:50 (2 min. into the flight). At 1:54:44 (6 min. 32 sec. into the flight) an attempt is made to right the ship and slow to a stop, but it’s too late, on lower than adequate thrust and too great weight of unburned fuel which, upon the ship’s striking the earth at forty feet per second instead of zero feet per second and bursting open, ignites all at once. So much data is gathered that every test, even this one, is successful in that a great deal was learned, so this particular sequence of problems is much less likely now to occur when there are people riding in one of these things. That’s why they test.

What could go wrong? Besides blinding you and spraying hot green chemicals all over the kitchen, Dave, dang it. (via b3ta)

An ad for stunt school.

Film crew in quarantine.

This was a few years ago. Scroll down to the video. Everybody in and dangling from that helicopter had to risk their lives to rescue this fellow.

And this was just a few days ago. Same place. Apparently the world is just a teevee show to people, where anywhere it occurs to them to go must be safe to go, despite waves exploding entirely over the entire fricking jetty. I don’t know if there’s a sign, but should there need to be a sign? Like those amusement park rides that spin you around and shake you up and down and throw you in the air, ya know? What mother with a brain in her head would let their kids ride on that, much less ride on it if herself, pregant or not? (That’s an actual sign I saw at the county fair a few years ago, for pregnant women to maybe not ride in a giant cuisinart on a hydraulic ram.) Anyway, a walk on the jetty:

Real places. What a beautiful world.

/Americans stand ready for sacrifice to defeat new threat./

“Don Quixote gives freedom to many wretches.” I like the pronunciation of Don Quixote where you say /kee-SHOT/, which is not only acceptable but comically superior, as is /kee-SHOT-ee/ and even /kee-KHOT-ee/. I also like to pronounce trebuchet /treh-boo-SHET/, gala /ga-LAH/, Renaissance /ree-NAY-sunss/, Caribbean /keh-REE-bee-un/, and civil /sih-vil/ (not SIH-vuhl). I like shwas okay but the question is, who is to be master? Words are our tools, not the other way around. I like to draw my name on my tools with a Sharpie.

/Tooka-chooka PHBBLT!, yo./

I showed that to Juanita and she said, “Did you ever see the one where the parrot sings /Let The Bodies Hit The Floor/?”

Corruption coddlers.

Pervert hunters.

All! Especially the cap gun, because I’ve grown allergic to that smell now and hate it, it makes my throat tickle and then hurt just to smell it, where when I was a kid cap gun caps were third in great non-food smells, behind a diesel bus and fresh steaming asphalt.

A beautiful car made out of an only very slightly modified VW bug. Not good in the wet. Just drive it on nice days.

I can’t find the car, to show you, the above VW makes me think of –it was another one-off, made by an aircraft designer in the early 1960s– but here are some others that are cool though probably a lot more expensive than the VW, and they mostly all have tops, though they’re probably just as impractical in mud:

Call me when it can /tunnel in the earth and fly/ too.


Woman senator genderistically mansplains mansplaining to man senator who, in return, enjoys flicking her nose from side to side with his metaphorical index fingernail. I love it how you can see on /his/ face the puckish satisfaction of exactly the moment when /she/ realizes she’s stepped into the shit but she can’t stop.

Encounter at Farpoint.


Art of colored sand on a vibrating plate.

Bats flying, including X-ray video of a bat flying, using its fingers, because that’s what its wings are: fingers spread out into a fan.

In 1990 I actually traveled to the Museum of Jurassic Technology in Culver City to see their exhibit of the Deprong Mori, a bat that can fly through solid matter by emitting x-ray pulses, trapped in a block of lead. Here’s an article about it. I’ll talk about this and the MJT at length next week on the show.


Chuck Yeager breaking the sound barrier in the Bell X-1.

An amusing apartment back door.

Why is it always snakes?


“I was ready /three hours ago/. When will she be ready? When will she be ready?”

This guy.

What makes da Hottentot so hot.

Um-hm. Why do you suppose that is?

Which are real, which are not? The two of them that look like Vulcan script I thought /were/ Vulcan script and so not real, but they are real written Earth languages. (via BoingBoing)

And he’s like, *eye roll, sigh, oy.*

Tom Roberdeau through space and time.

Gangster torture lav. Breath. Excusable fresh-zombie patriotism. Folklore skin miracle. X-quisition.

My dreams from Wednesday, 2020-12-09:

First dream. I’m in a new different country, in a shipping/air/entry port. People are waiting everywhere for their immigration and/or business interviews. I really have to piss. I find the bathroom, but it’s just the waiting room for the bathroom. Sounds come from the inner room, of questioning and torture. I just go straight through the waiting room and go in. It’s a normal airport restroom except it’s furnished like an office torture-hospital run by 1950s-style gangsters, with a reception desk and with small cot-beds that fit in the toilet stalls. The main gangster, an office-manager-seeming version of filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, looks up from slapping someone with a silent /What can I do for ya?/ expression. I can’t use a urinal if there are people all around, and there are beds over the regular toilets. I apologize for interrupting and leave. There has to be another bathroom in this building; there are thousands of people here.

Next dream. I’m in bed in a strange room, lying on my left side. Juanita’s in a chair behind me, sleeping (I only sense this). A tall rangy woman like the mother in the famous Great Depression photo crawls into bed with me, gets her head down under the blanket and /breathes/ on my dick, which of course stirs (like the hairs on Data’s temporary human arm when the Borg Queen breathes on it). I politely discourage the woman, climb over her, out of bed, and go looking for my clothes and the shower. I don’t know where I am but that’s not a big deal because Juanita will tell me, except, is she here? or did I just imagine that? (I never looked at her, never actually saw her there.) Am I demented and this is a place for demented people? I have a flash half-memory of masturbating in someone else’s house where I was visiting and getting it all over everywhere like throwing a bucket of cake batter, but that can’t have happened, it doesn’t work like that, don’t worry about that. Just find the clothes, take a shower, go back to the bedroom and make sure Juanita’s really here. If she’s not, get out and flee until whatever they’ve drugged me with wears off and then figure out what to do next. Pretty standard.

Next dream. There’s an ongoing-for-many-generations ancient or future iron-age European war of tall thin soldiers all in white-enameled metal armor. When a soldier is killed, they re-up him so he’s still useful to fight but mentally different from the person he was before. In a long narrow stone room of rows of benches on risers with the two sets of risers facing each other, soldiers wait to be called back out to fight. One freshly-dead-and-repaired soldier, a tall, thin, young Medieval or post-apocalyptic-Medieval version of filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, is shouting proudly about how patriotic he is and how much he wants to get out there and defend the realm, and /Why are we all sitting around when there’s /fighting/ to be done?/ and so on. The other soldiers just quietly wait and ignore him; when someone’s brought back from the dead, when they’re freshly a soldier again, they often act like that. He’ll settle down after awhile.

Next dream. There are cafe tables scattered around the parking lot in front of Safeway in Fort Bragg (CA). I walk there and see filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, who used to teach at the Community School, sitting with his dream-only new wife. Tom looks about 50 or 60 years old, and his wife, the same age, seems faintly familiar to me: pretty face, big flat wide-set sharp blue eyes, black eyebrows, long, thick black hair, but skin problems of both a young /and/ an old person, like movie-makeup radiation damage. I say to her, “I can help you with your skin. I’ll give you a list of things to get and you can do that while I talk with Tom, and I’ll write instructions for how to make it.” She’s skeptical, because Tom has skin problems here too, not as bad as hers, but why wouldn’t I offer to help him? I gesture to convey that /It doesn’t work on men/. But now I have to invent ingredients you can buy in a grocery store to make a magical radiation-damage/acne treatment. Just relax and let the lie flow. I always have paper in my pocket. Tom gives me a pen.

Next dream. A sinister religious inquisitor character and his entourage show up at a gray old cathedral/monastery/nunnery place in green hills. In this world they’re hunting down people with odd powers to persecute them. This inquisitor is specifically looking for Thomas Roberdeau, who in this place and time is a mysteriously superpowered four-year-old boy. The nuns are protecting him; they have him hidden.

One of the nuns steps a little into the air in plain sight, like skipping but not quite coming down, but the inquisitor doesn’t see that. The nun climbs/flies up a giant tree-branch-like filigreed rusty black metal clock hand to hide behind the tip of it up near a high window. That’s part of her power– not only being able to make herself light like the people fighting in the bamboo tops in /Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon/, but also to go unnoticed by your enemies in short intense bursts while doing something astounding.

Just a two days’ dream journal post this time.

Allow me to repeat: I’ve been keeping my dream journal again and reading it on the radio during MOTA. I’ve been on-and-off sending my dreams to the MCN Announce email listserv, but some people get the Digest version, and posts longer than a paragraph or two clutter up their entire trip, so it occurred to me to just put it here in my weblog and send only a link there. It worked fine last time, so. If you want me to read your dream journal entry, or anything else you write, aloud on KNYO-LP Fort Bragg (CA), my email address is in About And Contact, above; just send me your work and that’s what I’ll do. I usually read the dream journal section later on in the show, meaning after 3am but if you want me to read your work at a time of your choosing (the show is 9pm to 5am every Friday night), say so and I’ll try to comply. Thanks!


Mic cables. Event.

My dreams from Monday, 2020-12-07:

First dream. I’m walking on a bleak-feeling, remote, high-desert-like version of Albion Ridge Road. I turn down the driveway to my employer Tim’s place. It’s all rustic but well-kept up, like a camp in a state park in the past or future but not now. Here’s my dream-only car, the powder-blue Oldsmobile my mother had in the early 1960s. The trunk has been open all night since I left it here in the back-story of the dream. Standing up in the trunk is the green bicycle I had in high school. There’s a microphone wire splitter like a cat-o-nine-tails. Someone is to my left but I don’t look there; I’m interested in how the trunk is not growing but is somehow bigger all the time until it’s the size of a house porch with the lid as a porch awning, and there’s a wall-to-wall tangle of long mic wires filling the space with the bike still standing up on top. (I just realized this image is like the back of the geophone cable truck of the company I worked for in Wyoming and Colorado for a short while in 1979.)

I go to the cluster of little buildings (the office, library, Ethel’s house). Madeline, who used to be a bookkeeper here, is sitting outside the office, her back to me, at the center of a long table of not financial books but regular books (hard and softbound, all different sizes).

I’m supposed to work on something here but I don’t know what. Ethel’s house is open to the air, with louvers and porous, colored fiberglass panels. People are talking inside. I stand on the step and knock. A strange blonde woman comes out to tell me something or give me something. I back away into the driveway, having forgot to wear my mask. Madeline’s daughter Caitlin, who I last saw in real life in the early 1990s when she was fourteen or fifteen, comes out of Ethel’s house and slinks away between the buildings, hiding her face, comically embarrassed at not being young anymore but more like in her forties now and shaped like a bag of clothes. I feel sorry for her feeling like that, but what can I do?

Next dream. I’m walking on a rural two-lane highway. I dither a bit about leaving the highway, but decide not to pass by visiting my old dream-only high school on their open-house graduation festival day. I’ll look around everywhere and refresh the memory with everything the right size and distance, to tell stories about it better.

I’m in the high school, where I’m reliving when I taught there (this starts vague but clears up) and showed a future-movie-star girl how, when running from an attacker from the pool, wet-barefoot on the tile-floor corridor, to put her hands up to hit the doorjamb and use her hands and arms to stop, to turn into the room and get weapons or phone for police instead of slip-crashing into the doorjamb and being hurt and even more vulnerable to the attacker guy. She’s here, grown up now, Italian-looking, long straight black hair shot through with gray. I take off my shoes, step in the water to wet my feet, run in and down the hall (carefully and slowly because I’m old), put up my hands to stop myself at the door. She says thanks, for teaching her how to do that so long ago: it didn’t necessarily save her life but it helped.

We go to a room where present-day high school kids are sitting around making cutting and taping cardboard together to make props for the graduation pageant. I think one of the boys here is the woman’s son.

I go back out, around the corner, up a hallway as big as an airport concourse, to where a marching-band parade crosses. This is just before the convention-hall-size cafeteria where they’re already bringing out the food: hundreds of big pepperoni pizzas, and cardboard-and-wax-paper serving trays of piles of hot meat: fat steaks cut open to show how juicy and red they are inside. I get a doubled paper plate of French fries practically swimming in fryer oil (I can excuse it because of the scale of the event), and I get /two/ steaks. I’m really looking forward to this; I can’t remember the last time I had a real steak. I’m ready to eat with my hands but here are open boxes of plastic knives and forks.

It’s crowded. When I find a place to sit at a bench, a wiry little gray-burr-haircut man calls out, “Marco!” and he sits next to me but facing outward with his back against the table. In the /way/-back-story of the dream, years ago in the house where I lived on Highway 20 I let him and his older, bigger-than-him girlfriend and her deprived hillbilly kids stay for two weeks, sleeping in the main room, and then I didn’t actively participate in getting the man arrested but did side with the woman and didn’t help him, because I’d come to understand he was a serial criminal fuckup who dragged others into trouble with him and would not reform, and also he hit her at least once. At the table now he’s philosophical about it. He’s not angry at all. He’s happy to see me. He’s not a criminal anymore.

Except, darn it, he is. He was just involved in one last crime before he’s about to escape the South American country where all this is happening. It feels like a Gabriel Garcia Marquez story.

The dream ends with a song very close to /Mame/, of English-translated Morse code radioing out to the freighter/passenger/rescue ship of the failed little man’s old friend captain to /not/ stop for him but just pass by outside the harbor because the man screwed up again after all this time and got caught up in his old criminal ways.

I got up and went in the kitchen and was humming it. It turned out, /Mame/ is one of the many songs from Juanita’s childhood that she still knows all the words to.

Here’s /Mame/ to give you an idea of the sound of the little criminal man’s radio song. Mentally insert Morse code beeps and change the lyrics to mean the new story you know now.


Sex. Mission to Pluto. Woodwind flute. Ceremony. Missed connection. The big pipe.

My dreams from Tuesday, 2020-12-08:

First dream. A rare dream of sex with Juanita. Just like real life but muffled in all aspects. No story to it.

Next dream. An Asian version of Juanita’s and my friend Jason is one of three or four of us on another planet at night. A menacing alien silvery-smoky-white translucent living robot creature modeled on a long lizard, with a deadpan human face etched on the glass underside of its triangular head, has been ordered or programmed to hunt and destroy us. I have the idea to lure it into the house from outside through the downstairs (downhill) laundry room/mudroom. Asian Jason is our weapons and fighting specialist; he goes down there, pulls the door shut after him, there’s some thumping and bumping, and he comes back up carrying the creature, which is now immobilized with heavy bent metal pins impaling its hips/hipbones and the hipbone-like flanges at the bottom of its head (the cheeks of the etched-on face).

I’m relieved. I was afraid he’d kill it. But we’re still in danger. There’s a pall of danger over everything.

Next dream. I’ve been negotiating about job or the price of something in a department store in a closed-in, snowed-in Midwestern shopping mall. Later, at the entire other end of the mall, in a big supermarket, where the checkout counters for all the stores are (and the exit doors into a wall of snow), I put the end part of a flute (but dark wood not metal, and belled like a clarinet, down for the clerk to see or scan, as if this part is the check stub to collect the rest of the instrument, but it’s just what it is and I don’t have my receipt. Juanita’s with me. We confer about how to proceed: Go back to the other end of the store, miles away, to the girl I bought it from? Or did I buy it /for/ her? And will the rest of it be there? or what?

Next dream. A future-hippie-era San Francisco-like bay waterfront place. I travel along the street, a little back and to the right of the subject I’m documenting: a musician/historian on his publicity tour/stunt to take a handful of guitar picks to to other end of the street. He stops there at the mouth of a river, turns and goes back, gathering a crowd of followers as he goes. (It’s working. I didn’t think it would.) He walks on a thirty-foot-long single-plank footbridge over a swampy place to the center support and continues down a second plank to the other side.

At a place like where you used to go out onto the dock to watch the KFOG fireworks show, he looks out at the bay as if standing respectfully for a flag song. Everyone else stands still too. I imagine, instead of this, playing /All Right Now/ over the rooftops on electric guitar at top volume. Everyone would like that better than just standing here. There’d be a street party. But no, that’s not his vision of the event. It’s his show; let him do it how he wants to do it. /All Right Now/ would really work, though. It’s dead easy to play. Two chords.

Next dream. A Southern gentleman alien supernatural spy character like from a comic book is fascinated by a flattish-headed catlike blonde woman who lives in a hotel under the Bay Bridge (close to the dock of the previous dream). I step into the action as the man and, instead of the way he’d show off his magic powers, I /don’t/ demonstrate that I can fly, but rather just make arrangements with the woman’s suspicious jealous butler to meet her later. After a dream jump-cut past the early part of the relationship, the woman and I get separated and I end up waiting around in the street on the water-side of her long thin house (that’s like my grandparents’ restaurant when I was little). We must have gone right past each other. There are no phones here. I go in the back way and it’s another building entirely. This is not the same world. Oh, well.

Next dream. I wake up from sleep in the dream on top of a small utility trailer made of pipes and sheet metal. I’m in the middle of the intersection of what I think of as Bank of America Street and Crown Hall Street in Mendocino, but it’s a strange version of Mendocino. There’s a fenced-off deep excavation for a park project where the Mendocino Hotel additions and the water tower should be. I pick up the tongue of the trailer and push to parallel-park it against the fence and leave the tongue in a shrub to make it all look less prominent so no-one steals it. I open the top of the trailer to make sure I’m not leaving anything valuable or important, and the inside is full of lawn waste and open putrid bags of garbage crawling with wet flying termites that billow up into the air, into my face. I slam the lid shut, slap at the air, run back out into the street. The bugs fly-squirming around me and away have left yellow slime on my arm and my neck and my t-shirt front.

At least I’m dressed. And I have my wallet and various cards. I can find out how much money’s in my debit card by buying something /like a bath in the hot tub place/ (if it’s where it’s supposed to be).

The wallet becomes a big manila envelope with papers and forms and things in it besides the cards and some money, and receipts and notes to myself; I’m here for an investigation. I hire a hippie-ish but serious-seeming local as a guide, who finds me a metalworker to cut open the end of the hockey-stick-shaped park swing pipe I suddenly have. But the metal man’s job is loading people on an amusement park ride that goes underground about where Alphonse’s bookstore used to be. It’s okay, just let him get these people on this next bunch of cars and he’ll take a look at it, no problem.

He brings out a cutting torch on hoses, lights it and is about to start cutting off the six-inch shiny stainless steel end of this otherwise yellow-painted heavy iron pipe. I say, “I changed my mind. I’m sorry. Stop. I’ll pay you for your time.” I give him five dollars from the envelope. He insists on my taking one dollar back and says a cheerful smart aphorism that I didn’t get to keep.

Now I’ve acquired a second local helper man. We all go up into an dark, claustrophobic old apartment building to try the clue address I have. I remember the previous time I went this way (?), when the woman who answered the door was like the blonde girl in the /Oasis/ episode of /Star Trek Enterprise/ where everyone else in their village, except her father, turned out to be holographic artificial people created so she wouldn’t grow up lonely– but I knock on the door and it’s someone else. A blonde woman, yes, but not that one, and she’s nervous of all these people standing around. I tell the others to go downstairs and wait, give me some space.

I woke up about to ask the woman if she recognized me at all, knowing she’d say no but not shut the door.

Ho, ro, the missile-o, the missile in the si-lo!

     “I have never seen a beer or wine or other alcohol company use a drunk person in their ads. Are they embarrassed by us?”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-04) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.


From a very short way into the show and lasting forty-five amazing minutes is Doug Nunn’s, Ken Krause’s and Marshall Warner’s Snap Sessions project /Hey! The Irish Persons: the Disappearance of a Storied Folk Group./ It’s made of Hit and Run Theater material going all the way back to /forty years ago/ when this baker’s dozen of talented people were just starting out and the world was their oyster, except for the months with an R in them. It makes me think of the film /A Mighty Wind/, which you’d enjoy, not least because of Parker Posey, who I have a picture of in my wallet, that Juanita knows about, it’s not a problem.

Besides all that, and because you’re back in quarantine, here’s an extra-large pack of links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right. (They recently changed how WordPress works, so I’m experimenting this time with not bothering to painstakingly make all the links open in a separate tab. You’ll have to press the back button to come back here. If you don’t like it this way –or if you’re reading this as an email because you’re subscribed, and it shows up all weird, which, I don’t know, it might happen–  please let me know so I can take steps.

Overture fire.

Death in marbles.

Wednesday was the 36th anniversary of the 1984 poison-gas negligent mass-homicide of an entire city in India by the Union-Carbide corporation. The death estimate varies between 3,800 to 16,000, because when everyone in town is occupied going blind, coughing up their lungs and drowning in their own erupting bodily fluids, no-one’s going around counting each other, exactly, and afterward there’s the problem of /what do we do with all these stinking corpses of poor people?/ Bulldoze them into trenches, funny you should ask. In all, 600,000 people were poisoned. Here’s the story of how it all came about in a chain of dominoes, each domino representing another point of appalling thoughtlessness on the part of Union Carbide (now Dow Chemical) who still hasn’t made it right to the survivors, many of whom had good cause to envy the dead. (1 hour)

Understanding the Beirut blast, a much briefer, arguably more humane yet similarly negligent disaster.

Woman yelling at cat in art through the ages. (via BoingBoing)

Blue. (When I think of blue, I see the color, but when I see the word blue by itself I hear the seven-note warble of Joni Mitchell saying it at the beginning of her song /Blue/. Of course, if it’s within a sentence there’s no time for that.)

Rerun: “Because we rollerskated today we will go to college tomorrow.”


Hot glue web shooter. This is so great.

That explains it.

This [fill in blank] does not exist.

Beautiful world.

One-man theremin-saw duo.

“The sight of a dead dog floating on the surface nearby was a very welcome sight to Ransonnet as it proved to him that there were no sharks to be feared.”

Six years old and she can sing like a bird and bar an F at the same time. Imagine what she’ll sound like in just a few years if stardom doesn’t wreck her with drugs and tattoos.

1. I looked up the whole series of MiuMiu’s work and was especially laugh/smiling appreciatively at one of them when I realized the dang meatballs were burning in the pan. The apartment was filled with smoke. Son of a bitch. 2. Meatballs burned on one side can be salvaged with Valentina sauce or, if you’re out of that, ketchup and cayenne pepper. From son of a bitch to pretty good, just like that. It’s like barbecue. 3. I left the windows closed against the cold and expected the HEPA filter, so useful during California red-sun fire weeks of this epoch, to clear it up so the pet bird wouldn’t choke, speaking of choking, see above, and in half an hour it was fine. When Juanita got home from work I asked her if she smelled anything odd in here and she said no, why? That filter was ten dollars at the thrift store I don’t even /remember/ how many years ago, it’s been running all that time, and every couple of months I take the cover off and vacuum away the felt-like blanket of dust that develops on the charcoal-plastic outer ring. Last summer the downstairs neighbor said something about the 60Hz humming through the floor bothering her, so I got a package of foam sponges from the dollar store to make vibration-absorbing feet for it and now it’s whisper quiet; I can’t even hear it from the bed, and you can only hear it on the radio if I turn my microphone all the way up. Make and model: Honeywell Enviracaire (250 cubic feet per minute). Five stars, and two thumbs up, except in Middle Eastern countries where that’s an enraging sex and/or hygeine insult, worse than touching your thumb with your index finger, which, here in the West, used to be what they called /the high sign/, meaning /okay! or well done!/ but now means /white power/ because the other fingers make the W of /white/ and the finger and thumb make the P, so don’t do that either. Don’t do anything. Just keep your mouth shut, arms slack at your sides, tremble as imperceptibly as you can, avoid eye contact and try not to fart and you’ll get through this.

Doreen Ketchens, queen of the clarinet.

I get that the thing dangling from the ceiling is decorative swirl of some sort, but what is that thing on the table? Is it supposed to be an art snake?

A watch with mechanical birds to silently chime the time.

Photographs that accidentally look like Renaissance art. (via NagOnTheLake)

Nothing is changing about the size or position of the rotating wheels. They’re not moving around; they’re not getting bigger or smaller. The only thing that’s changing is the arrows in their centers. Put your thumb on the screen to cover the arrows and you’ll see.

With that illusion in mind, in analogous news which bears repeating: The stock market is not the economy. It’s a parasitical casino, like Biff’s casino in /Back to the Future II/. The casino is apparently doing swell, the surrounding community is a bleak hellscape, and somehow without access to fantasy time travel we need to repair the timeline.

Here are some old clips of James Randi (R.I.P.) gently humiliating psychic mind readers, aura feelers, speakers-with-the-dead, dowsers, etc. by allowing them to attempt their tricks under conditions where they can’t cheat. Unless psychics can cheat, their trick can’t work. For decades the well-publicized offer stood of /a million dollars/ to anyone who could honestly demonstrate any psychic or supernatural power at all, and there were plenty of people who tried. Prince Hal, here, for example, though he was only going for $10,000.

Understanding additive synthesizers. (via b3ta) (15 min.)

They gave a picture of a pretty girl fresh out of the shower to Photoshop artists all over the world and said, “Make this one beautiful in your country.” Some of them came out looking like Star Trek space aliens. (One even has Trill spots across the chest.) The U.S. one looks like 1980s Teen Prostitute Barbie. The Phillippines one seems familiar, and I’m trying to think of why. Ah! They’ve lowered her forehead by sticking on hair from a random Clairol box, painted cut-yourself-if-you’re-not-careful cheekbones and added enough spray eye makeup to convert her into Jennifer Garner at the very beginning of the process of morphing into a raccoon or perhaps a badger. I /knew/ I’d seen that somewhere before. “And just where do /you/ think you’re going, young lady, all tarted up like that?” “Let her have her fun, Patrick-Michael. She’s only young once… You go on, darlin’, have a good toim. Call us to come get you if you get too pissed to be sexually responsible.”

Descriptive lyrics to /Belle/.

Australian Star Wars fan flick.

Where the U.S. hides its shipping secrets, and why half the cargo ships on Earth are registered in Liberia.

Mama mia! she says. (You have to click on View and you might also have to click the sound on.) (via Everlasting Blort)


These people play glass harp and a guy joined their band who has a theremin. This is the exact opposite of when the obnoxious bongo guy joined Flight of the Conchords.


The sigil engine. (via BoingBoing)

Get the funk on. (via b3ta)

Tracy Newman plays Cripple Creek on the banjo.

“It’s a Tokyo basketball, it’s an Oslo basketball, it’s a Rio de Janeiro basketball.”

“Elmore Jang’s got nothin’ on /this/ fonky.”


Nice truck. The sign they tied the rope to says /Dumping Prohibited/. And their trash turned out to contain paperwork with names and addresses. Oy.

An hour over sea places of Norway.

Juanita showed me this:

…And this:

I really like this message: Your creative and musical heroes all once sucked just as hard as you do. It is inspiring. Practice and progress.

It’s like it’s saying /Do me! Do me!/

Doom? Why so? (via NagOnTheLake)

Photos of the damage. They’re not going to fix it. It’s over.

…Can you watch recordings of it finally catastrophically failing and read all about it? Sure. Here:

All about asteroid strikes. “The thing that most closely resembles a meteorite impact is a very large nuclear explosion.”

The coin.

The magic fishbone.

Hell of a year. Bottomless scroll of photos.

Journey of beef.

The two little pigs.

His old flame.

This reminds me of a standup comic guy Hit and Run Theater brought to Crown Hall once who made fun of Ronald Reagan being too stupid to even feel pain when he was shot. The comic said, “Even a /paramecium/ knows when it’s been /hurt/.” (The would-be assassin used a very small-caliber gun and Reagan always wore a bulletproof vest under his suit coat when in transit. The early 1980s weren’t that far away from the late 1960s. The Kennedys (J. and R.) and MLK and all were still fresh in everyone’s mind.)

Each of the devices in this carefully-arranged heap has some important part of it that works on an electrical principle Nikola Tesla discovered and/or popularized. (via EverlastingBlort)

This isn’t an audition. This is the man they hired, doing his job.

Whoa, Saint Theresa, higher than the moon.

The drunk guy who decides packaging. (via b3ta)

Who likes to rock the party? New /Zealand/ likes to rock the party.

It’s a comic strip, but it’s an actual real-life event.

…As is this.

…And this.

…And this. I can’t stand this. LOOKATTHEROAD! LOOKATTHEROAD! LOOKATTHEROAD! It’s bad enough when in a movie or teevee show the driver turns to speak intently to the passenger, eye to eye, while the car continues at speed. This is ten times as bad as that. This is /crazy/.

And this full wide-open beaver moon.

Musical notation.×1152/skynews-wildlife-photographer_5189980.jpg

Evocation of Stravinski. (via b3ta)

Inverted fire tornado.

Native American folklore.

Brap! (via the Anderson Valley Advertiser)

Long exposure drone photography.

Rerun: It’s beginning to look a lot like Fish Men.

This is the guitar-playing musical-machinery afficionado who they called on the phone to make a video about /Eric Clapton’s/ old strat that they were set to auction off, and after he did, and like four million people watched it, they sold a $200 guitar for $1.5 million. Here he is favorably reviewing a copy of Jack White’s steampunkish octave stomp box. (I still have my Electro-Harmonix Micro-Synthesizer analog stomp box from the early 1980s. One of its effects is similar to this. Chris Diurni used it in the then-Mendocino Community School recording studio to embellish Charles Tyler’s song /Strange Fish/. It sounds like a dinosaur screaming.)

Wish fulfillment.

Another car crash compilation.

Brother and sister play Back in Black.

And if you have some time left over, or you wake up in the middle of the night and feel antsy, here (via BitsAndPieces):

Three days’ dream journal post.

I’ve been keeping my dream journal again and reading it on the radio during MOTA. I’ve been on-and-off sending my dreams to the MCN Announce listserv, but some people get the Digest version, and posts longer than a paragraph or two clutter up their entire trip, so it occurred to me to just put it here in my weblog and send only a link there. I’ll try it this way, and if it feels right I’ll do it again sometime. If you want me to read your dream journal entry, or anything else you write, aloud on KNYO-LP Fort Bragg (CA), my email address is in About And Contact, above; just send me your work and that’s what I’ll do. I usually read the dream journal section later on in the show, but if you want me to read your work at a time of your choosing (the show is 9pm to 5am every Friday night), say so and I’ll try to comply. Thanks!


Vehicles. Maker space lights. Sleazy convention/office motel.

My dreams from Monday, 2020-11-30:

First dream. At the end of a story I didn’t get to keep, I’m driving a small old Toyota like the one I had in the early-middle 1980s, south on Lansing in Mendocino and out to the highway on Main. Somehow after I get on the highway my old landlord Michael is with me, and he’s quiet and content, unencumbered by issues, unlike the way I remember him in real life (often snippy, with a surprising temper). The highway is narrower and twistier and more up and down as the car gets weaker and weaker, so that at last the road is only five or six feet wide (still with a line down the center), the car is a motorcycle, Michael and I are walking and I’m pushing the motorcycle (light as a bicycle) uphill around a curve to the right and through a curtain of hanging willow tree fronds. The road curves left and downhill again, becomes a long shallow flight of concrete stairs down to Van Damme park. Get back on and ride down the stairs? or keep walking?

Next dream. In the middle of a strange blocky version of Fort Bragg (CA) I’m in kind of a maker space, maybe at work, in a poorly lit big room of rows of white formica electronics repair benches. Stephen Greenwood from Mendocino Theater Company gives me a full-length full-height circuit card like from a middle-1980s IBM PC, and a smaller square one that my task is to connect to the end of the big board with a zipper of jumper wires, and here’s the roll of wire to make the jumpers out of. In the bundle is also a sharp fat pen thing that might be a cordless soldering iron or a logic probe tool.

A delivery person stumbles in from outside with boxes and accidentally bump-switches off the last few overhead fluorescent lights. I go to a panel of horizontal breakers by the door, try them all, one at a time. Some just turn a humming sound on and off from deep in the building. I get the lights back on better than before, more of the ceiling tubes, less like a person with Indian-corn teeth.

Now I’m carrying around my things and a small table lamp I found, trying to find a place to plug in and set up that isn’t either being worked at or saved for someone. There are A-folded cards reserving places. I hear a cafeteria somewhere; that’s where those people are.

Later I’m lying in bed in a room at the end of a street to the north of the lab. An unfamiliar thick-forehead frizzy-gray-haired girl is clambering over and clinging to and kissing me. A nurse is doing paperwork at an office desk by the storefront window. Some people sit on waiting room benches, some go in and out of a back double-door. I should get out of here; I don’t even know who the girl is. I feel like I’m supposed to be helping in here and it shouldn’t even look like I’m taking advantage of the patients. I get out of bed –/I’ll be right back, just a minute, don’t get up/– and I walk and then lope away into a now even more blocky, pastel-paint, artist-colony place than before, that I remember, within the dream, having dreamed about often, years ago. It’s like a real-life town on the coast, I don’t know whether it was north or south of L.A., that my mother took me to a few of times when I was little, when she was a real estate agent. There were fenced yards of ceramic plant pots and yard statues for sale, painting-framing stores, a building with rental surfboards the size of canoes leaning against the front.

Next dream. I’m in San Francisco in a docks-feeling place but not near the water, returning to a rented meeting room for, I don’t know, family counseling? couples therapy? a business team building exercise? As I walk under scaffolding, other people’s used chewing gum builds up on the soles of my shoes and I have to keep stopping to scrape it off on a pipe or on the curb.

Here’s the motel and the way in. I go upstairs. I’m the one with the key to the room, but some others are already inside. Let them start whatever everyone’s here for and I’ll figure it out from context. (Just like I often feel in real life.)

Time has passed. I’m driving some others in an unfamiliar car uphill through a pre-COVID realistically busy horrible San Francisco, where I just absolutely hate to drive. All the lanes are thick with cars all tailgating, all dangerously jockeying to shave ten seconds off their trip. The car goes slower and slower uphill; I find a place to get off the street and bump down into a construction lot that’s probably not right to park in. It’s not my car anyway. I don’t know whose car it is. I just walk away from it, walk the rest of the way to the meeting motel. I’m barefoot now, the sidewalk gum sticks to my feet.

Another group using the motel is a 1950s white gangster role-play convention. As I go upstairs a three-foot-tall gangster comes down. He’s like Joe Pesci in /Goodfellas/. I flatten myself against the wall and apologize for being in his way, sir.

This time I go into a different room, where apparently you go to have a tooth fixed. A clever-looking woman I’m involved with in the dream is here with me. You climb onto a wide five-foot-high shelf along the long inner wall of the room, and they come along and give you a plastic cup with purple-gray powder in it, a cup of water to mix in, and a fat contraceptive-foam applicator to spread the result to pre-numb the area. The mixture becomes like gritty shaving foam and expands out of the cup. I don’t want to shave, but I get that you’re supposed to, to avoid infection. I spread the foam all over the right side of my face. I don’t even know what tooth they’ll be working on. Nothing hurt, even before the shaving cream. I should just leave.

The man doctor and a woman assistant come in. I say, “I’m gonna put this off and come back another time.” They’re like, /Ha ha ha, that’s what they all say./ I appeal to the woman I came in with (?), but she sides with them, like /Just get it over with./ No. I climb down. Can I get a towel, please? Or a paper towel? It might be too late. I might already be drugged. /All the more reason to get away./

I woke up with the song /Heart-Shaped Box/ playing in my head. Not the /eat your cancer/ part, but the /Hey! Hey! I got a new complaint!/ part. I’ve always wondered about that song, having got the impression that the man was singing to an ex-girlfriend that he’d had a fight with, who died of cancer and could no longer hear him bitching at her… But, here, from SongFacts:

According to the book /Come As You Are/ by Michael Azerrad, the idea of the song came from Courtney Love when she presented Kurt with a heart-shaped box full of precious possessions (such as a doll’s head). The song switches meanings between Kurt’s feelings over Courtney and his feelings on how women are treated.

After Lana Del Rey did a gentle rendition of this song at a 2012 concert in Australia, Courtney Love gave her take on the song. In a series of quickly deleted Tweets, she wrote: “@LanaDelRey you do know the song is about my vagina right? Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back umm. On top of which some of the lyrics about my vagina I contributed.”

So. Nobody has to wonder about anything anymore. I read that there are still fanatics of Kurt Cobain who blame Courtney Love for Kurt’s suicide, which is nuts; she and her child are clearly the victims, though she and her daughter inherited $115 million. My entire experience of Courtney Love was a transcription of a radio interview about her band I read in the New Yorker, where she was pissed off that there wasn’t any coffee in the whole radio station, you’d think they’d have coffee in a New York radio station at nine in the morning, somebody said there’d be coffee here, I don’t care, fuck, just send somebody out for coffee, and a Rolling Stone Magazine story about the court case of how she was ripped off for hundreds of thousands of dollars by a scheming manager/asistant who she had unwisely trusted because she was her friend. Her punk band named Hole did pretty well and were fine for a punk band. She plays the electric guitar and sings. And she won film awards for her acting. I saw her in /Man on the Moon/, about genius comic Andy Kaufman; she plays his girlfriend who seemed to be good for him. She was in /Tideland/ by Terry Gilliam, but her character was dying or dead of a drug overdose in the opening scene. Her innocent daughter and drug-addicted husband were discussing how they would proceed from here; the man prepared to set the apartment on fire like a Viking funeral but the little girl stopped him. You know who the greatest child actor in the world was? The little girl in /Tideland/ (2005), Jodelle Micah Ferland, who twelve years later played a believably fifteen-year-old girl named Five in all episodes of the science fiction teevee series /Dark Matter/, and she played a snotty, selfish, arrogant child queen of a whole planet in Stargate Atlantis. Also a great child actor: the little Romanian girl with her arm up in a cast in Tarsem Singh’s /The Fall/ (2006), named Catinca Untaru. In her scenes, mostly in the hospital room with Lee Pace, she was just reacting naturally to Lee’s lines and to the story he told, and it worked perfectly. I love that film because we see her misunderstanding of his story acted out; the actress, like the character, could only faintly understand English. And then he has to trick her into stealing morphine so he can kill himself. (He’s a movie stunt man in 1916 who was crippled by overreacting to seeing his girlfriend screwing the director, so he doesn’t want to live.) Don’t worry, I’m not telling you how it turns out. It is a beautiful film from start to finish.


Trick war. Absconding from slavery. Trash can world.

My dreams from Tuesday, 2020-12-01:

First dream. I’m in a disorganized, sparse war, either fleeing pursuit or pursuing enemies around a lake in a U-shaped valley. A helicopter comes, picks me and my friends up. I take over flying the helicopter from a position sitting with one butt cheek on the edge of a flat-top toilet in the middle of the pushed-forward bubble nose.

We get to a court of long two-story government buildings. One of the soldiers here is a member of a group who have the superpower of persuasion. He wants to shoot me. I open my mind to him so he can trust me, and I order him to find the others and disperse throughout the command center nodes to wait for further instructions. He’s suspicious because what if /I/ have that power and I just tricked him? but he runs back inside to do it. Things become vague…

There’s a small-scale invasion in a rural community. Everything in the town is on the side of a shallow hill. Translucent alien octopus/bug/smoke-things infect ordinary people to give them strength and invulnerability and incidentally take them over. I’m shooting and shooting at the (infected) enemy general guy, with a gun that never runs out of shots, shooting him specifically in the eyes, over and over, and he keeps coming at us. There are people everywhere shooting and screaming and running around. It feels like I’ve been through this exact event before, maybe several times, and we won last time, so keep fighting, don’t run away now. There’s no sense of real danger. Maybe it’s an immersive game. /Maybe the persuasive group person brainwashed /me/ and I’ve been captured./

Next dream. Post-apocalyptic work camp. I’m on a fruit-picking crew, or a land-clearing crew. It’s early morning and we’re all in a line to get food. The boss guy shows up. I leave the line and tell him about an empty field that I saw yesterday? when? over /there/. I point past the worker shacks. He arrogantly knows about all the fields and where they are.

I’ve been working like this for I don’t know how long and have trouble figuring out what year it is –1998? 2002? It seems like just a day or two ago I had hopes for the future, could just go off to another college adventure any time. I had a car… In my memory, in the dream, I’ve been working outside in the sun with a crew of other exploited young people under older guys just like this boss person, with an unseen big gang boss somewhere else…

I won’t do it anymore; I and another (boy? girl?) walk away, faking that we have another job to go to. And now I’m alone, wandering in wrecked, grown-over farmland. I find a horse shed to hide in. Out the open front of the shed is an endless expanse of trees that are crowded close together but bare down under the branches canopy so you can see a long way. I’d like to walk out there. Later, after I sleep for awhile.

Next dream. I’m in a city of intact apartment towers but with rubble-strewn streets below. I look down from a room about six floors up. A big housecat walks on a path, limping on a hurt foot. An old man dressed in rags, shoveling debris aside like shoveling snow, looks around furtively, straightens up with the shovel and starts to sidle away with it. He’s quickly surrounded by younger men who get the shovel away from him, moving like, /Come on, Paul, you know that stays here./ He’s like, /Oh, sure, yeah./ (Like Jane in /Firefly/ where he forgets to give the captain the change back from going to get ammunition.) (There are lots of similarities between /Dark Matter/, see above, and /Firefly/.)

Now I’m in an East Coast dirty pointless city, in a ground floor apartment. I’m in my twenties. Other young people come and go. Somehow I get a job playing an ancient reel-to-reel tape and figuring something important out about it. I tell the other person with me (the person who I left the work camp with in the previous dream, still not 100-percent boy or a girl but more of a boy now) that I’m just going to take a shower and then I’ll help him get started with /his/ work. (He’s fearful of being abandoned.) A table-model phone, off the hook under a chair, begins to honk; I wonder how long whoever was on the other end was listening before it began to honk, and did I say anything incriminating?

So where’s the bathroom? Here’s a little bathroom next to the front door. No shower, but a plexiglass art plinth with a glowing blue pushbutton near the top. What does it do? Push it and find out. Nothing. The toilet turns out to be a small white wastebasket with wet gravel in it. There’s oil-wet cat-litter gravel on the floor. These idiots must come in the front door drunk and just piss and spill used oil here. Is my name the name on the lease or are we all equal squatters? Can I just kick them all out?

I woke up with the Steeleye Span song /Cam Ye O’er Frae France/ playing in my head.


MRRRRRR! Hypnotic touch devil guy.

My dreams from Wednesday, 2020-12-02:

First dream. It’s dim. I’m on the side of a muddy hill, where a four-inch thick slab of hard mud has somehow split off and curled upward. I’m on a science/crime? expedition. Others are farther up the hill. It’s time to leave. I have to go around the low side of the mud slab to get to where I can go up, and the slab /slaps downward/ on my shoulder and side. The mud underfoot is slippery. I slip a little, drop whatever I was carrying and scramble with my hands and feet, as the farther down I slip the steeper it gets.

I fall all the way to flat wet sand, face down, facing left. My head is against the rock bottom of the hill. The ocean is loud behind me, I can’t move to look how close. I need to get up and get at least a little way back up the hill before a big freezing cold wave comes, but my arms and legs are as trapped as my head is by my position. Two tall dead people made of seaweed or shredded canvas wiggle on their own, moving more than just from the surf wind, sitting up leaning against the hill right next to my head. I’m shaking, trying to move, trying to scream for help, but can only go /MRRRR! MRRRRRR!/

Juanita was still home, getting ready to go to work. She heard me in trouble and came and woke me up. She said it took a long time to wake me up. (I was lying mostly face-down on my crossed arms, same as in the dream, which explains the straitjacket experience coupled with the sleep paralysis episode.)

Asleep again, next dream. Cool but not cold wet woods, the way everything always used to be cool and wet in Mendocino and Albion. My employer Tim has a dream-only long narrow cabin on a ridge but still under wet trees. He tells me to measure for the parts I need and go to the city (Santa Rosa or San Francisco) to get them, to rebuild the back of his woodstove, but in a certain particular way: the pipe out of the stove must come from the bottom of the back of the stove, not the top, it must be cast thick iron, like a municipal water service pipe elbow, and the chimney pipe must be Metalbestos double-wall all the way down into that.

Some nebulous time thing happens so I’ve already gone and got the parts. They’re not exactly right, but I stick everything together anyway, and Tim is not Tim anymore but has been hypnotized by magic to be evil to others and self destructive and contagious in this. A cross between the Man-of-Steel-era Superman and Ray from /Legends of Tomorrow/ becomes the new Tim and, in the parking lot out the front door of the cabin, in the dark, he wants to protect me by fighting the devil Tim, the contagiously destructive one. I’m like, “No. You can’t fight him. Don’t let him touch you!” (Because that will take /him/ over.) But he’s confident in his power and he won’t listen to me; he runs to fight him.

I did what I could and it wasn’t enough. Albion is doomed. I go back inside to try to stop the next part of the devil Tim’s plan, because all the first part has gone his way.

Tim/Superman-person is already in here, laughing smugly about how he touched the woodstove and set it like an alarm clock to set the house on fire. A strange girl with flappy ears who lives slightly down one side of the ridge (?) comes in. I shout to her to go call the fire department, more to get her out and away from the devil than to get the fire department; they won’t be able to help here.

Tim/Superman vanishes but keeps chuckling annoyingly like a stoned teenager. I kick the back off the woodstove to run back and forth from the sink to throw cups and bowls of water into it, but the L-shape of the disconnected chimney pipe, now single-wall again, gets hotter and hotter anyway, glowing red. I throw water into the end of that.

From a position in a trellis on or in the roof I watch the Albion/Little River Fire Department people run in from the trees-end of the cabin. There’s chaotic forward-and-backward-in-time activity that settles down in a morning with no damage at all to the house, the fire people never having come here, except Jamie, and Superman/devil, no longer Tim at all, waiting, amused, invisible except to me while I try to explain in logical terms, so Jamie won’t think I’m crazy, why no amount of water can put out the embers in the now completely disassembled woodstove. Here’s how I say it: “You know how you can put two of the right chemicals together and they react and make heat? But there was a time when nobody knew what those chemicals were, to do that. This is like a magical new chemical that you can’t do anything about yet.” He’s thinking about this. I’m spilling water into the stove parts anyway. Problem is, the fire only looks like it’s going out. It’s not going out. As soon as Jamie goes away and it’s convenient for the evil character it’ll flare up again and everyone will think /I’m/ the one doing it. Still, there’s a feeling of relief that the house didn’t burn down.

Next dream. Caspar (CA) is spread out, or rather stretched out, with the houses even farther apart than in real life. A farmer and his wife live in a house like the set of a play Mendocino Theater Company did maybe fifteen or twenty years ago, that Donovan Holtz wrote, a soap opera about a writer living with his girlfriend on an island in Alaska when his ex-wife shows up. The devil character from the previous dream, but more of a person in a sheet/ghost/Scream-facemask costume here, declares that he’s going to take the man’s wife and that the man has no say in this.

Having had some recent experience with this devil character, see above, I take over for the man and [confusing jump-cut] so the devil/ghost character is now at the bottom of the hill, corner of Caspar Street and Caspar Road, with the man’s wife invisibly far away up the road, safe for the moment, but the devil guy starts walking there, determined.

I head him off at the highway and I’m trying to figure out how to fight him without touching him. Orion Burdick, who was in plays for all the local theater companies for awhile and then moved away, is driving by with his pork-pie-hatted friend in a boxy middle-1960s car. He thinks the devil guy and I are hitchhicking; he pulls over, turns around in a loop and stops. I shout to Orion, “Do you trust me! Get going! Don’t let him touch the car!” Orion is like Superman in the previous dream; he doesn’t understand the danger. He just sits there smiling, waiting for us to get in. The devil guy smirks, /This is too easy./

At least the farmer’s wife got away.

I woke up with Heart-Shaped Box playing in my head again.

A Thorgellenische pölka.

     “See my tailor. He’s called Simon. I know it’s going to fit.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-11-27) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.


Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right:

Thorgellen, by Alex Bosworth.

Hard to describe besides to just say Lawrence Welk welcomes a guest hot to dance the polka. She makes me think a little of Mark McKinney’s The Chicken Lady, especially when her head explodes.

The claw thing, for example. Everyone hates that.

Art. (via Clifford Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

A change. Incredible kids.

Busy houseplants. (via NagOnTheLake)


“Enjoy the music before we let personality Ed Robinson explain.”

Prison art. (via BoingBoing)

How we get all this food to be thankful to Imaginary Sky Friend for. Hint: a hidden dystopian underclass of slaves.

Best real-life superhero suit ever.*ooxpyNNsQGmlOh6v

Am I the only one who this reminds of Zorg in /The Fifth Element/, when he’s talking on the phone with the Evil Asteroid and black blood, or whatever it is, begins to flow down his face?

Stan Lee on language.

It adds to this for me that he looks like Harry Dean Stanton while he makes those funny sounds.

Two movies that go together great: Lucky, with Harry Dean Stanton (his last film), and The Man Who Killed Hitler and then the Bigfoot, with Sam Elliot. And they do in the same way as The Illusionist and The Prestige go together. Juanita once told me a story about how rabbits and cats, despite being not really genetically close, are very similar in many ways, as though someone had given a couple of lab groups general instructions for constructing the creature but told one group to make it a prey animal and the other group to make a predator; same skeleton, same basic structure, general appearance, size, texture. We had some friends a long time ago, Laurie and Michael, who drove around making a living playing harp together in Irish pubs, and they had a pet rabbit who lived in their motor home with them. Divorced from the wild it behaved exactly like a pet cat: used a litter box, snuggled on your lap, stretched, perched on a chair back, ran around the place at 3am, licked itself, slept in a sunbeam in the day, when there was a sunbeam. Some pairs of movies you just enjoy more, seeing them together, drawing parallels between them as well as thinking of them fondly in the same mental breath ever after. Don’t bother telling me I’ve written this near-exact same paragraph a dozen times before. I know. I don’t care. I like to.

A Thorgellenische Polka.

Speaking of which, I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself with the ax. That’s how your hurt yourself, doing it like that.

“Holy Krampus, I’m late.” I can enjoy this, and the one before, from context, though I’ve never seen a so-called holiday Hallmark movie. Hallmark produced a pretty good teevee series once that I saw all of. It was called Picket Fences, and it felt a little like the brilliant series Northern Exposure. I think the same people even made it.

The Jödenpflügel Brothers.

Beautiful trailer for a worthwhile new teevee series.

The time the former very last /Soviet/ Russian leader made a teevee ad for Pizza Hut.


“Wow, you are right.”

Okay, Pop, now you’re just showing off.

Fun with sugar.

And… a fountain! Trickle… trickle… trickle.

Rose Marie singing like Durante.

I love the title b3ta put on the tail end of this: “I don’t think that’s how you do a mic drop.” (The man calling the anti-mask protester on her bullshit of comparing herself to an anti-Nazi martyr is a security guard quitting his job because he’s full up to here with these people.)

This is how you drop the mic.

Methane. (via EverlastingBlort)

When we all can have spaceships the control console on mine will look like this.

How to make a traditional pantyhose turkey.

The Night Mayor.

Hup! Heep! they say.

I can think of good reason after good reason why a woman might finally snap and do something like this, and I’m sure you can too, where no jury in the world would convict her.

How to remove a cracked phone screen protector sheet. (First make sure it’s just the protector that’s cracked and not the screen itself. You might want to leave well enough alone.)

Understanding computers.

This guy spent 11 years making this impressively byzantine line rider video. I was gonna say, /All other line rider video makers can go sit down,/ but really the simpler ones have charm too.

An interactive site that shows which indigenous people’s land was stolen from them by cutting off of hands to whipping to starving to Trails of Tears to full-on genocide for you specifically to enjoy the use of. You just give it your street address. It even lists the treaties involved in your area that kosherized the process.

Rerun: Wednesday’s Thanksgiving.

Cooking in a trash fire.

Flappers flapping where no-one has flapped before.

“He forgot the apostrophe!”

Woodturning a goblet with a captive ring.

Jupiter flyover.

Masks. (via EverlastingBlort)

Fun with poems.

A little help.

It sounds like /Oy-y’yoy!/ that my Polish-Lithuanian grandmother used to say, but I think he’s saying something else. Everything about a military tank is an obscenely expensive waste, so I don’t feel all that bad when one gets stuck on its back clawing at the sky screaming like a turtle.

The mine is played out. They’re moving the massive excavator machine to where the boss wants it. It doesn’t roll, it walks.

Slowly turn around on Mars. Think long-term. Send out a few thousand self-replicating robot tractor ships to steer ice asteroids to crash into this place, seed it with micro life, come back in a few million years and you’ve got something.

Landslide blog. (via TYWKIWDBI)

How to write the different things there are to write.

Early Bjork. Before she was really full-on Bjork.

Minnesota: Land of 10,000 latkes. Alaska: Please don’t fuck our bears. (The big ass water tower is in Gaffney, South Carolina.)

Movie trailer: She wants to be a hero. In a parallel world, she is. It looks fun.

Let’s all smoke Chesterfield. Smoother, cooler, /best for you!/ Doctors agree.

Guy makes music out of Paula White, lunatic spiritual adviser to Donald Trump.

Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain – Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll. (Cakes and buns and sausage rolls.)

Rerun: “Okay, everybody, hump-tiptoe past the mirror and flap like a turkey.” Though I’d never seen this version of it before. I saw the one where he pretends to be a teacher and the women dancers are all dressed in Italian/Japanese schoolgirl outfits like children in a Studio Ghibli film.

Charles B plays the fastest banjo solos but on bass guitar. He often makes half-fun of himself as a kind of bass snob, but he has a real right to be a bass snob. He’s terrific.

“Peanuts are the devil’s toes.”

Healthful Admiral Cigarets for everybody.

Here’s just one fifteen-minute episode of a series about antique vehicles. In the series they don’t always drive the vehicle around but they always start it.

Winners of contest to make prom clothes out of colored duct tape. My favorite is Emily’s fire-feather gown. How did she not win?

And a visualization of old modem sounds. I know, because of keming your eye saw modern sounds. I still hear these sounds every day when it’s an Albion week. I sit with a small electric heater on my knees, dial up to read my email, maybe type my dreams, drink my Mason jar of green tea, read a few trusted and/or funny news service websites in text-only mode, which works fine at 26.4 kbaud, shut off the things, take a shower or not, get dressed in my heavy winter clothes and slouch off to work. Oh– and brush my teeth; I forgot to say that. What’s your morning routine?

p.s. If you want me to read on the radio something that you’ve written, just email it to me and that’s what I’ll do on the very next Memo of the Air. That’s what I’m here for.

Like crap through a goose, so go the days of our lives.

     “The real author of the theft of the diamonds and the assassination of the soldiers who escorted the convoy, committed on the night of January 22, 1826, is therefore not Joam Dacosta, unjustly condemned to death; it’s me, the miserable employee of the Diamond District Administration; yes, only me, who signs my real name, Ortega.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-11-20) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

Oh, and there haven’t been any complaints about this way to hear the recording, though it seems to be a toss-up whether it shows up as a widget or just a regular link, depending on what you’re reading this with and/or through:


Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

So many birds. It’s almost a liquid. You’d see this a lot in the California Central Valley in the old days, from the back seat of your stepfather’s Ford Galaxy 500, on Highway 99.

At some point you might have stubbornly declared that you wouldn’t [fill in blank] /for all the flamingos in Kazakhstan./ Well, here they are; take a look. It might change your mind. And if we ever run out of geese, it wouldn’t be too hard with a little breeding or genetic fiddling to replace them with flamingos. They’re very similar both mentally and physically. They even sound the same. They’re only pink because of a special bacteria in the food they like to eat, so they can be any color you choose except plaid.

Fabulous chickens. (via Neatorama)

Landscape photography.

I am Oz, the great and powerful, up on your sunroof, making your scenes.

Why to never ride in a car with your feet up on the dashboard, at a glance.

Maskless Trump supporter sneezes at the MAGA march.

“These people are hurting.”

Abandoned America. (via EverlastingBlort)

A wonderful ad to check your boobs.

Aww. Oh, the poor thing.

Master of so-called ugly guitar tunings.

How we get tubs.

Cotton candy pro.

Celtic knots.

This reminds me of the old Mendocino Community School. There was a girl named Midnight who could sing like this. Rain Equine could sing like this too. And drummers and bass players, and keyboardists. The music practice room was right in the middle of the school, and it was just a plywood shack, so you really couldn’t get away from it if you even wanted to. Antonia’s son James used the electronics lab to build an FM transmitter into his electric guitar so he could sit on the steps going up to the regular high school and hear what he was playing from the amplifier turned up to eleven all the way across the place. Talented kids, talented oddball teachers, amazing place, amazing time. Now this is these kids’ amazing place and amazing time:

Why to play simply. (via b3ta)

Iron Claw the Pirate. (85 min.)

A hovercraft port, with sound, 24 hours a day. It’s especially cool at night (there, Isle of Wight). (via b3ta)


Life and size. Useful information.

What a sitcom looks like without the laugh track. It’s like the Garfield Minus Garfield project.

A conversation with his schizoaffective friend. (via b3ta)


If ever a photo.

Okay, here’s how to live. Right here. (via

Randy Rainbow’s latest triumph.


Sunflower jazz.

How we get drumsticks.

1975 S&H Green Stamps catalog. (via EverlastingBlort) In 1968 in Fresno we got a whole pingpong table, paddles and a box of balls and everything, with stamps, but I think it was the Blue stamps, not the Green stamps.



     “I always thought the shit would go down when I was young and strong. These days I’m just hoping I won’t spend my old age picking through the ruins of my city looking for expired canned food.” -Hari Kunzru

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-11-13) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

I didn’t know this way was available, but if this works for you –let me know if it doesn’t– I’ll do it like this in future, though it seems to throw the layout off in an odd way in Firefox. Maybe it’s just my machine:


Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

They play Swan Lake, that this Alzheimer’s-suffering nonresponsive wheelchair-bound ballerina used to dance to, and it switches something on inside her. Her hands float up, her head tilts, while the video editor shows you, in split-screen, film of this very woman sixty or seventy years ago on stage, young, in her power, dancing, up on her toes, her arms out and head tilted the same way to the same passage. Past the weeping, it reminds me of an old science-fiction story from the 1940s about a great dancer in the future who is old and damaged and scientists give her a powerful, flexible robotic body to move into. Wouldn’t that be nice. Or like in /Altered Carbon/, where the hospital people are all indolent and slow because why even bother to fix up a totaled body when you can just take them out of it and put them in a fresh one like changing into new pants. Or a new shirt, actually; they call bodies sleeves. The ongoing person of you lives in a pocketwatch-size thing stuck in the back of the body’s neck. If you’re not rich, though, and your child’s body is wrecked, you have to save up and rent a body for her, to spend time with her on a special holiday, otherwise her watch is in storage. And, again, if you’re not rich, you don’t get much of a choice about what body you get, just whatever’s available, that some other poor person will rent out because they’re poor too, just like real life now, in a way, except for the replacement business.

Good dog.

Adieu, toodle-oo and good day. (via b3ta)


In case of overmedication.

He’s brilliant at this. I remember Hit and Run Theater people used to do an improv game like this in the early 1980s. Doug Nunn, Steve Weingarten, Kathy O’Grady, Harry Rothman, Ellen Callas, Pamela Stoneham, Tracy Burns. They could do it all night, just off the top of their head. They’re still doing it; there was just a Zoom show a little earlier tonight. Here’s what they looked like back in the day, when the world was in black and white. Oh, and here’s Diego J. Rivas:

Electric wingsuits.

Speedflying. Too low. AAAAH! Look out! And he spins upside-down… This is more nut-retracting than watching drones crazily careen around. If a drone clips a rock it’s just a broken drone, not a smashed and dead body.

For years, people kept crashing trucks into this bridge by being ten inches or a foot too tall. So they hired an engineering firm to tell them how to fix it, and the answer apparently was to spend a fortune to raise the bridge by only eight inches, perhaps on the theory that the show must go on, which as you can see it does.

What. (via Fark)×1000/media/img/photo/2020/11/photos-scenes-new-zealand/a14_487144676/original.jpg

120-year-old brightly colored photographs.

The man who invented Scooby-Doo is dead. Ruh-roh! *feet scrabbling on marimba sound*  And he would have got away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for those meddling kids, including the warbly one with a beard made of five hairs. And the little round librarian one. I don’t remember who the other two were. Was one of them a French girl in a beret?

African reporting on U.S. the way U.S. reports on Africa.

Lava lamp of birds.

Get your JZD Slušovice TNS GC today. It’s as at-home bookkeeping a fourteen-cow dairy operation as it is pointing a planetarium to highlight Sirius.

Closet lunatic.

Happy street.

Rerun: Glass beach of Vladivostok. Like the old one in Fort Bragg (CA).


First-line generator. There are other generators here. Try them all again and again.

You don’t really get enough of a sample in fractions of a second to compare their sound quality, and the distortion is turned all the way up anyway, but it’s kind of cool, just as a montage.

This, on the other hand, shows you what you need to know if you’re considering buying a fancy bass guitar. I think the Fenders have it, hands down, and it’s because of the pickups. The Rickenbacker doesn’t get a fair shake, though. Its tinkle-toy edge sounds like an impedance mismatch that might be solved with a different direct box or amplifier.

The Empty Chair, by Sye Allen. (via b3ta)

Nobody is normal. A great lesson.

Using the springiness of magnets for a slingshot.

Depending on your video parts and browser, this might work anywhere from great to not at all. Try it.

An article about steps. Much more interesting than you’d think. It’s the same statuesque woman with the thing stuck in the side of her nose who did the earlier article about Edwardian electrical hazards.

Rerun: Banana republics.

“Lemme ask you something. How do you kiss underwater without bubbles coming out your nose and mouth and everywhere?”

Using a helicopter to lift one of the three antennas up a /one-thousand-foot-tall/ antenna tower so the men hanging on strings up there can bolt it down with hand tools.

Right-wing outrage songified. From the (Autotune The News) Gregory Brothers.

A dog with long ears. This is what you’ll see from now on.

“Birds don’t understand glass. Really, they don’t.” (via BitsAndPieces)

Optical. (via Bit&Pieces)

How to remove ham from a disk drive. “Let me explain the science behind this.”

Okay if you like cactus.

As SNL sketches go, this wasn’t a big hit with the audience, and I’m not sure why, because I like it fine. Jesus visits Sally Field to ask her to not pray quite so much. This reminds me of the great but equally-not-well-received film /The Invention of Lying/, as well as the fine film they made a few years ago of Philip Pullman’s /The Golden Compass/.

Here’s a guy who made friends with the raccoons by giving them grapes
and hotdogs. They love him, but one day he’ll go out there without a
grape or a hotdog and we’ll see.

Speaking of raccoons, here’s Alex Bosworth reading his story /Chip Chip Chaw/ in 1995. He illustrated and animated it, as he did many of his stories, with crayons and butcher paper and VHS tape.

We got pie. We got Co-Cola.

Sprite lightning.

Dr. Seuss’ surrealistic work. If you already know the basic Dr. Seuss story, play the video and skip ahead to 4:40. That’s where the actual surrealistic work is.

Star Trek: Acid Party. (via b3ta)

A fascinating stroboscopic montage of human-made things down through the ages.

Head-stabilized video of a hurdler, his stabilized head inflating in perspective as he looms nearer and nearer.

Where hedges come from. They start them out miles long, cut them up in section to ship them out. Like a post hole farm of old well shafts, but horizontal.×984/media/img/photo/2020/11/photos-scenes-new-zealand/a25_636242677/original.jpg

Old photos colorized. Many pages to page through.

And they’re all so surprised and frantic. What did they think was gonna happen? That’s what the idiot light shaped like a cartoon bomb on the tach is there to tell you.

Rue nigh.

     “Failure. Is that right? Has my life just been one big failure? I mean, maybe I never quite lived up to my early promise as a math genius but that’s because I was waiting. For the alien to collect his eye and change my life.” -Eugene

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-11-06) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

I think you’ll like this particular show. It hangs together in a way that they don’t always. You know what they say about hanging together. Also there’s an Alex Bosworth story you haven’t heard before. You like that. Here, look, it’s an airplane, open your mouth.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Pinball explained and shown in slow motion. (Via BoingBoing.) I’ve skipped you ahead to the interesting parts. All you really need to know is, electrical j-box knockout slugs don’t work, because a clever magnet pulls them out of the coin path, to be collected inside the bottom of the machine. (Coins ignore a magnet. Try it and see.) My stepbrother Craig, who took his own life with a pistol forty years ago, could win free games on any pinball table and play until the arcade closed, on a single coin, which in those pre-magnet-trick days /could/ be a slug. He was a real-life pinball wizard. Just a cute, skinny, Irish-looking kid with freckles across his button nose, and phenomenal hand-eye coordination for sports as well as pinball. He’d be 65 now and probably king of the world. Alcohol was involved. And why isn’t there a slogan for that? /Don’t drink and kill yourself./ Hmm. /Don’t self-medicate for suicide by the thing that makes you depressed in the first place./ No. /Guns, as stupid an idea as drinking./ Okay, enough. Anyway, pinball games, how they work:

This is kind of like a pinball game. Here’s a man playing piano for tips out on the street in Barcelona, and a kinetic riot develops around and past him –nothing to do with him, just right place, right time– with explosions and danger and police vehicles and bemused remarks and everything; he’s in the eye of the storm just calmly playing the piano, and his little audience appreciates it. Which person in the video do you identify with, and why?

At the same time, this is also me. (Besides the person I chose from the previous one.) I’m the dog /and/ the person. I startle and/or gaslight my own damn self.

To everything. There is a season.

Careening around L.A. like an afreet frantically searching for his master’s lost magical object. (via NagOnTheLake)


Photographic art.

How to clean your taxidermy. No need to put it off any longer. Come on, it’s time.

What could have been.

What always happens.

The common threat.

The paleofantastic trombone squid. Trombone is French for paper clip, and you can easily see why.

One, and two, and kick, kick. That’s it.

Donald Trump’s tax-salaried spiritual adviser hears the sound of victory. She hears the sound of victory. She hears the sound of striking the ground. Akka bakka furundiga frakka suh-kakka ba-blakka fluhcogh gagoch. The heavenly angels are coming from Africa. The angels are coming from South America… (You might have to click the sound on.)

And an artificial intelligence analyzes paintings, describes them and comments elliptically on them. Example: “A large sculpture hangs on the ground with a spray painted on walls or imagine there is a pile of metal sculpture with several birds on it. I once observed two birds having sex on top of a roof covered in tile.” The machine gets all that from seeing an amorphous blue, brown and pink smudge. It’s goofy and impressive and, just like that, there go another few thousand jobs to automation. Next, wine and food columns, financial advice, landscaping, property management. Then cable tech support. Then Skynet.

Why no airlock? There’s a pretty good reason.

Zappa documentary. I’m in!

Gregory Alan Isakov – Time Will Tell.

Lilies of the pond. (via NagOnTheLake)

Conservatives outraged.

Infinity mirror guitar. For the short of attention span, skip ahead to 6 or 8 minutes in.

I’d like to play that. I don’t think it’s a real thing, but why isn’t it? People would buy that. It seems like it would be trivial for a game writer to make this as an app for a phone or tablet, and it could have as many colors as you choose. Go ahead, make a million dollars and then cut me a check for whatever you think is fair for setting you on that path.

Beautiful dreamlike drone flight.

Huygens spacecraft landing on Titan.

Bad-dream-like zoetropic sculpture.

Cyriak Harris says, “So, I had a heart attack the other day. It was horrible. Don’t ever have a heart attack. If you want to know what one feels like, imagine an elephant standing on your chest until the pain spreads up through your jaws like you have toothache in all your teeth at the same time.” (Here are samples of some of Cyriak’s queasily fascinating animation work, each one like a dream you might have when you’re sick and have a fever, just before the fever breaks. Click to choose.)


How we get modern bowling balls.

Black Safari. (Full film, 67 min.)

I love it when she takes them off and the cat instantly goes, “Oh, okay, then.”


“You haven’t got any improvement in these 3 years. What a pity, you come for death.” I like the leaping and spinning in the air. And Michelle Yeoh. She’s a Vulcan doll. She can really do that stuff, too. She does all her own stunts, like Tom Cruise, Summer Glau, Buster Keaton, Keanu Reeves, a handful of others. And like them she’s been badly injured several times.

All the way from Medina of Marakesh to the Tapioca Highlands, including a forbidden (cursed) view of sacred Uluru from above, where you are committing unconscionable racism by even looking at /pixels/ of it.

I’m not sure why this is so funny to me, but it might be that that kind of electric heater is the crappiest kind of all; it basically has to heat all the air in the room before you feel warm. The kind they should send are the cheaper, easier to make kind that shine warmth directly at you. But at least they’re /doing something/, and they’re young, attractive, talented, happy and having fun. I’m not criticizing them; I envy them.

Here, electric heaters from a hundred years ago. Beautiful functional art. And you can make toast on them. They look like art deco microphones and steampunk spaceship ray guns. I have an eighty-plus-year-old G.E. Focalypse parabolic heater, that worked great the whole time I had it probably fourth- or fifth- or twelvth-hand, and only last year it corroded to the point of not being able to repair it. It wasn’t just that they made things better in those days, it was that things were simple, not much to go wrong in them. The gas kitchen stove I just installed in my employer’s rental unit /has a computer in it/. So if the electricity goes off in a storm you can’t even cook hot chocolate on it by lighting it with a match. On the plus side, you can’t pull a Sylvia Plath, have a bad day and deliberately gas yourself to death. Unless the computer properly lights the oven and feels that it’s lit, the gas can’t stay on more than a brief puff. You’ll have to find some other way to off yourself. And, regarding electric heaters, from a physics standpoint, a plug-in electric heater is the most efficient machine possible. All waste heat of operation, including any ticking or buzzing sound it might make, is heat that you want anyway.

Journalism. “News reporting is a young man’s job, for the reporter must have stamina and endurance to withstand the strain of long and strenuous hours of work. He must have the courage and perseverance to /get the story/ in spite of obstacles.” And, “If you don’t like to write, you won’t be happy in journalism.” It’s good that they tell you all that right up front. You don’t want to find it out later, when you’re poised to /blow the lid off this lousy town/ and it’s just too much trouble, your muscles are string beans and noodles and you can barely lift your arms to place your indolent fingers over the write-o-matic keyboard and push down a few times. Underdogs and ordinary Joes and Josephines are counting on you. Crooked City Hall mob bosses are getting away with arson and murder, and pawn shop horse-track blacklight massage fortune-teller jukebox drug den slime is boiling up out of the sewers like a Boy Scout Jamboree science hall vinegar and baking soda volcano, oh, just shove over, I’ll do it.



Art. (via DarkRoastedBlend)

This is the way everyone should quit.

This sounds like a neat teevee show. The hero is a brave librarian, doing what librarians do when Earth has been invaded from the stars.

Not too long ago now-President Biden said, “A lot of Black people are behind an 8-ball.”

The girl in the front row is really into it.

About hydrodynamic bearings.

This man seems to have unlimited money to buy and try out musical instruments and equipment, in this case to his exact specifications. He’s a very good guitar player, and this is an interesting guitar with a startling feature. If you just want to hear what it sounds like, skip ahead to 8:30.

Gorgeous flying.

Rerun: this train. (via TYWKIWDBI)

“You’re like a big dirty raccoon, David.”

What’s inside.

Racist zombies. (via TYWKIWDBI)

A dramatic gas station in Volgograd seen from miles away. (via TYWKIWDBI) Every gas station in the world is capable of this furious beauty. There are /500,000/ gas stations in the world. That this one fulfilled its artistic promise is an esthetically valid point of view.

And, “That is what we have been told we are. It’s an extremely crude and limited conception of one’s self.” –Alan Watts.

Proud and free.

I modified this /I voted/ sticker with, from a LWV photograph, matching the curve, lighting gradient and uneven blur. I’m a little out of practice of messing with images; it took me ten minutes.

And Juanita saw it, tisk-tisked and made this from a clean flat image, using Irfanview, in about the time it took me to type this sentence:

I said, “How /do/ you sing so high?” She said, “I’m a /girl/.”

Mr. Mischief Night.

     “Here’s what’s happening: Someone keeps going back in time to fix 2020 by changing something, but every time they do it just makes it worse.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-30) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

This person is the pumpkin carver from now on. Everyone else can go sit down.

Costume contest.

Halloween is cancelled. Wear a mask anyway.

I like these creatures. (via EverlastingBlort)

Shivery creepy. Especially when she drinks right out of the milk. With her mouth.

Mr. Mischief Night.

Shanghai Disneyland Pirates of the Caribbean ride-through video. “Raise the fleet!” Somehow this all reminded me of the very last Star Wars movie. Hmm.

Speaking of which: /Wonderboy/, by Tenacious D.

Australian Aboriginal choir Spinifex Gum sings Tom Waits’ /Make It Rain/.

Tom Waits interview on Letterman in 2004, /then/ TomWaits’ /Make It Rain/.

A single-seat car –a rail-car– that gets the equivalent of 12,000 miles per gallon. All the experimental vehicles in this contest use less power to go forward than just the headlights of a regular car do to merely light up.

Rerun: Cyriak– dancing (and blossoming and fractally-multiplying) skeletons.

Dobby Sommer sent me this.


Kurzgesacht on geoengineering.

German band of session musicians covers /Dark Side of the Moon/ live.

Guitar all of chrome-plated heavy steel, including the neck and the tuning-peg head: even the frets are welded on! Making of, edited down to eight minutes. (When the electric welding starts at 1:36 it’s startlingly loud.)

And Ethel Smith on the tiny but mighty Hammond organ. You kids don’t know, but it wasn’t that long ago that every shopping center used to have an organ store full of organs of all sizes for sale, and there’d be someone like this woman, or a man in church clothes (suit and tie), playing just like this on the organ in the entryway, to draw people in. Pizza places had an organ and somebody to play it; some of them had a kind of clockwork or electrical or vacuum-operated mechanism to play it, to pull the keys down while you watched, or while you sat at it and pretended to be the one playing it. Churches, of course. I don’t remember banks having one, but that would’ve been a great idea, and still would be, if people still went in banks. Mark Scaramella of the Anderson Valley Advertiser worked his way through college playing an organ for intermissions in a giant movie theater, on a platform that would rise up on a hydraulic lift out of the stage in front of the curtains that would shut over the screen and then go back down when the curtains pulled aside and the movie started again. People had an organ in their house, in the living room or basement or den. Some people had two or three. Organs were a big deal for a long time, and then they just weren’t anymore. Why, I wonder. What ruined it? /And where did they all go?/

How to use the toilet in space, in case you ever have to.

If you love me.

Big vaj energy. (via b3ta) This reminds me of an old seaman’s song that went something like, “Pull up the sheets, me hearties, swab the decks with brine. Bend to the oars, ye lousy whores, for none is bigger than mine.” I think it was called /The Three Whores of Winnipeg/, but I can’t find that anywhere. There’s /Winnipeg Whore/, but that’s not the song. I guess nobody famous enough ever recorded it, so.

Slide show of The Onion’s look at 188 trimesters of reproductive rights in America.

The entire Trump presidency edited down to 68 minutes by Vic Berger.

Time coke.

The curse.


“Man, you’re a blonde goblin. You’re a busted scooter at the dump.”

Juanita sent this. It’s a puppet painter.

Saw that coming.

Bruce Laks sent this. Nelly McKay (say muh-KAI).

Everything Nellie McKay does is golden. Here she is in 2004. So languidly sarcastic. She rhymes golden retrieverish with Leave It To Beaverish.

And on Halloween in 2007. She and Maria Bamford and British comic actress Sally Phillips (of /Smack the Pony/) and even Parker Posey all merge together in my mind. They have the same kind of edge.



Turn the playback speed up to 2x.

1.25-billion-pixel image of the Milky Way.

Okay, one, don’t call your mother /Dude/.

So did she vote twice?

What. (via Fark)

Dam it. (via NagOnTheLake)

Be your own boss. You don’t /have/ to paint your fingernails gold, but it couldn’t hurt.

Viola is dead.

Tiny and colorful. (via EverlastingBlort)

Ad for Indian snack food.

Hat’s a luck.

The barrel and rug event.

How they go.

“Luckily he landed on his bottom. This happens every year. Parents need to be careful.” (It’s not just the toy fireworks, it’s the collected explosive gas in the tubes that does the work.) (via b3ta)

International Sweethearts of Rhythm. (via EverlastingBlort)

And the Bengsons.

And the Bengsons and their friends.

This is why we can’t have nice things.

     “臨時ニュースを申し上げます. ゴジラが銀座方面に向かっています. 大至急避難してください.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-23) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

Franklin Street again, because of having to stay on the coast for work. But not entertaining in-studio visitors. I’d love to, and we could sit far apart but, speaking of work, my day job has me around health-risk danger-age people and I’d rather not be a conduit for killing them. And I do like spooky COVID-and-depression-boarded-up downtown Fort Bragg, though I faintly miss all the years the bar next door was running and I’d be reading along and be startled/amused by drunks barking drunken barks of laughter and swearing comically vilely at each other out front, occasionally bouncing their antagonist’s head off the window or the doorjamb to make whatever point it occurred to them to make, and gunning their motorcycle motor /BROOMM! BRROOMMM!/ to signal to potential mates how big and fat and powerful they are and insinuate what generous and high-quality organ donors they will become sometime soon, perhaps that very night, out on the highway, which was even in the wee hours a river of colorful vehicles in those churning times of pointless frantic futile economic ferment. Now they’re drinking and opiating and mething and masturbating and so on in relative private. There are points for and against.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

A gallery of day o’ de dead art. (via EverlastingBlort)

Rescue timing.

Casual improv Trump impersonator’s latest selfie stroll.

“One night I was dreaming I was a scorpion, a scorpion happy with itself and doing what it pleased…”


Weather photography awards. (via NagOnTheLake)

Tour of Bennu.

Radio Birdman – Hand of Law. Strong music. These kids should be way more famous than they are.

Video feedback. We used to do something like this at the Community School in the early 1980s. But this man has devised a clever adjustable apparatus to manipulate the, uh, flow.

Algorithm generates whole ’90s music festivals for you.

Swirl your mouse around in liquid metal. (via BoingBoing)

Wrong mix for the job.

This starts out intriguing and gets even more so. It’s a piston-powered baseball bat.

Dry ice art.

Hana Mash Hu Al Yaman. (via NagOnTheLake)

Do you think there’s life on other planets?

The traumatic life of Ernest Hemingway shouted by a puppet in 3.5 minutes.

How we get CRTs.

A rhythmical ad for the kind of coffee making machine I imagine rich people might put in their architecture magazine houses and have a special butler-person, maybe an attractive deaf high-school girl intern, to fiddle with it for ya and then go back to her desk in the foyer.

Will and Garrett. (via EverlastingBlort)

It looks like a little person playing some sort of musical instrument. (via Fark)

Just a quick snatch of a pretty fire art project. (via EverlastingBlort)

Wear a mask.

Rerun: Breakdancing fingers.

Entirely analog. Imagine the condition of the signal after, say, twenty skips. /But no noticeable delay/.

Speaking of analog. Analog musical instruments.

Every issue ever of Psychotronic Video magazine, free. (via BoingBoing)

Ramp. (via b3ta)

“You been the raspberry seed in my wisdom tooth long enough! Do you know what I see written all over your face, boy? Reform school!” (That’s pronounced re-FAH-werm.)

Fifteen ways to cook a hotdog besides boiling it. I recommend using chicken hotdogs or rather more expensive Polish-dogs. The regular cheap beef-pork-mystery hotdogs just taste /off/ anymore, and it’s not just me, everyone says so. Turkey hotdogs, like turkey meatballs and turkey bacon and turky pastrami, have always been concentrated vomit, in my opinion. But they had to find somewhere to put all those millions of tons of genetically inflated turkeys in between Thanksgivings.

Une mission ephemere. (via b3ta)

Hope and cringe.

     “People in a position of power always want everyone to shut up about abuse of power.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-16) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top. Look at the date next to the title. It’ll be the date of the end of the show, Saturday morning.)

I said I’d put up the Dory Dan material tonight, but I’m not ready. The stories and even a few photographs are still coming in. Wait a bit.

Edit (2020-10-31): Here it is in the Anderson Valley Advertiser.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Drone flight video is more and more like dreams of flight. I love the way it goes right past the subjects and flips over and back to follow, keeping them in the frame the whole time.

That’s going to add up to $10,000 by the time he’s done.


Catnip: egress to oblivion?

Mirror dive.

Then and now. (via NagOnTheLake)

Postcards from the future. Wish we were there. (via EverlastingBlort)

Fine, then. (via b3ta)

Scream of the bikini. (via b3ta)

1. “He just wanted animal fur.” And 2 through 8.

Don Pauly, things have, uh, changed.

For 3,000 years, swastikas meant good luck. Then /bam/ and goodbye to all that.

I know you. You vant to plug in your phone charcher. You come here, you give me hugk first. No hugk, no charcher. (via×800/media/img/photo/2020/10/photos-week-1/a16_RC27EJ90UZYD/original.jpg

The story behind the song: Popcorn.


Mastery of the medium. Everybody else can go sit down. (via

Speaking of which. If you’ve ever rented an electric-start 12-hp ditch-witch to save you having to dig a few measly yards of ditch to put pipes or cable conduit in the ground, and then it was all so hard, reading the instructions, driving it off the trailer, steering it along the path, hosing it off, putting it back on the trailer and driving it /all the way back/ to the rental place and feeling tired and satisfied with a job well done, compare yourself to this woman whose physical body is a real-life gas-powered shovelhammer and who could probably casually pull your arms off like a boiled chicken.

Try it now.

Just the trailer.

I must’ve been living on some other planet to only just now be finding out this guy exists. And the drummer, too. Wow.

Repete. (That’s how they spell that over there.)

Teeth. (via NagOnTheLake)

Safe fashion show. (via NagOnTheLake)

Nature Planet.

This magician apparently lives in a place where people are terrified of magic. I’m afraid someone might punch him, or hurt themselves by running away out into the street without looking both ways first.

I like the hotdog one. And the last one.

An abandoned music school in Chernobyl. (via Neatorama)

They had this building technology in the year 1357. Why aren’t we living in cities in space by now?

Panty raid.


Propel. “When this performance was completed, the dispassionate rider was replaced by an ear whose height was the height of the artist. The robot then performed the same choreography. The robot that choreographs the ear also carved it.” (via b3ta)

And Dory Dan at 16 back in the Space Age. He just died last week. Look at those adorable great flappy ears.

Comedy of Horrors 2: Clown Without Pity.

     “Does anyone here feel sometimes like our country is cursed, as if the whole thing were built on some sort of ancient Indian burial ground?” -Myq Kaplan

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-09) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top. Look at the date next to the title. It’ll be the date of the end of the show, Saturday morning.)

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

The forbidden cave.

The hand.

Why not both?

Ladies and Gentlemen. (1.5 hours)

Metal art. (via EverlastingBlort)

“Stop that, Ivanka. Nobody believes your fake tears.”

The audio/video sync is off by about a quarter-second, but so what. Anyway, he’s dead now, from cigarets.

2020 in Star Wars.

A new game.

“I work part-time for an app that lets people decide how much grave they want dug.”

This was 35 years ago. He’s dead now. He died on Tuesday of cancer from smoking cigarets.

Marionette Freddie Mercury.

That Kellyanne. Such a kidder.

Open air fish market in Yakutsk at minus-49-degrees-Fahrenheit. Original sound on the video, mostly the sound of the camera person’s boots cold-squeaking on the ground. (via the Anderson Valley Advertiser)

Technically it’s a /kilo/drone. Still pretty cool.

How we get Greek train tunnels.

A Petri dish of cable cross-sections. (via polymath science popularizer Cliff Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

Speaking of a Petri dish: Parting out the end of an obscenely wasteful, ridiculous industry whose only real benefit was a handful of jobs for piano bar performers and, in antique wartimes, troop transport. Though we’ll wish we had kept a few of these ships around and intact when the climate panic-migrations begin. And I suppose they could be prisons and office buildings and dystopian orphanages and entry-level housing right now. Just hook up electricity and sewage.

For example, one of the great films of all time involves a cruise ship pianist.

Brewery reactor control room.

What makes the Hottentot so hot? Who put the ape in apricot? Whatta dey got dat I ain’t got?

Mister Mankiewicz.

Click for the gallery. My favorite is the Cheshire gecko. And the fluffy ice bug. And the eel larva.

Roue de poisson. (Wheel of fish.) With video of one operating.

Downhill bike race. Vertiginous.

Go on, you know you want to, knock yourself out.

Human history. (10 min.)

Pomplamoose – End Of The World As We Know It.

Oh, dear.

/Nice, Ron!/  /What, I’m not allowed to sneeze now?/

This funny musical boy.

Alexandr Misko’s English has really improved. His guitar ability pegged the meter a long time ago.

People selling mirrors.

100-year-old hand-colored glass photographic slides of life in Japan.

A beautiful clockwork assembly toy. As expensive as it looks, though. When I win the lottery, I guess.

NASA Astronomy Picture of the Day Archive.

Full-screen this 40-minute fractal meditation.

Senator Elizabeth Warren and Representative Katie Porter break down President Trump’s tax returns.

Michelle Obama reams Fat Donny Two-Scoops a new one. (24 min.)


Ring juggling dance.

Creepily superhuman athletic contortionist juggling dance.


The reesks and dangers of drogs.

A deep book-length article about systemic police brutality and its costs in the U.S.

Dealing with diversity.

Dancing. This is our sacred dance from the Old Country.

Yeah, exactly what /I/ was thinking: This will disrupt toxic stereotypes of gender. “It is also 100% cotton and includes smock embroidery,” so there’s that, too. This is the kind of clothes where you don’t want to be eating oatmeal when you first see it, because you will snort out a quick bark of laughter and oatmeal will get up inside the back of your nose. That’s worse than when you get Pepsi up in there. And it’s only $1,500.


Underarm magic for modern witches.


“People say these are slow. They’re not slow. They’re peppy.”

I repeat: How could you practice for this?

Rocket dog. (via Fark)

Just keep scrolling down. There’s more story.

I have /Inka-Dinka-Doo/ on one of my mix disks in the car so I hear it a lot. The sort of progress in this video reminds me of when Jimmy Durante says comic-indignantly, “Tell me, Mr. James, now just what did /you/ accomplish!” (via NagOnTheLake)

Art. Click on Gallery for more galleries of Mike Worrell’s art. (via EverlastingBlort)

Rax. You can eat here.

Fossil-fuel-powered surfing in the desert. That’s what we need.

The actress.

The girl you wish you hadn’t started a conversation with at a party, part 1.

Ladies. Okay, good effort, good effort. Elbows up, though. Raise your guard. And punch, don’t slap… This reminds me of how throughout the series /Eureka/ they never missed an opportunity for Doctor Allison and Doctor Beverly to go wild on each other and smack each other around. This is a little like that. The probably-no-longer-kosher term for this is girlfight. That’s what everyone would shout when I was in grammar school and high school, when girls would fight, though in real life there was a lot more pulling hair and kicking shins about it, and shrieking details of the initial grievance. Very entertaining and then always a disappointment when a teacher would run out or run in and stop it. Juanita asked me once why I think boys like watching girls fight. I know it’s supposed to be sexy but I don’t see it that way. It might be that you’re pretty sure the whole time that nobody’s going to get really hurt, but then there are things like River in /Serenity/ and the carnage is the point, but that’s a girl fighting men, and it’s cartoon fighting. I dunno.

In the early-2000s teevee show /Firefly/ this is what they call going full burn. These creatures were the model for the spaceship.

Speaking of /Firefly/, this career video producer has somehow never seen it (!), and is only just now watching it, here in 2020. I remember about ten or so years ago when Juanita’s then-twelve-year-old niece was visiting her grandmother and we were all there for some kind of holiday, and I put on the first disk of Firefly, and Teryn was quiet throughout the pilot episode, but when it was over she said, “Is there more of this?” and she wanted all the rest of it, right now, just like everybody does when they see it.  Sure, no problem, here ya go.  I said, “What do you like most about it?”  She thought about it a minute and said, “I like looking at Adam Baldwin.”  One time around that era I asked her what her favorite movie was, ever, and she said, “Fight Club,” and I said, “Huh,” in the tone Mal uses, in /Firefly/, when he sees what’s in the box. I think I might have a skewed view of how things are anymore. I think girlfights might be different now from the way they were when I was twelve. I don’t really see kids in groups much anymore. Probably no-one ever spits at anyone else, too, what with the masks and everything. Kids used to spit at each other all the time… I hear you thinking, “What? Where did you live?” In the Old Country, of course. You could get your whole car painted for $59.99 there. A complete brake job was like fifteen dollars a wheel. A sack of ten hamburgers was one dollar at Norm’s and you could use all the ketchup and mustard you wanted from big squeeze-bottles at the end of the counter. Water was free. There were sanitary drinking faucets everywhere, in every public building and on every corner, and there were places to sit down where you didn’t have to pay anything at all. You could just sit down and read a whole book and nobody thought anything of it.

Grammar allergy.

And something about deeply held beliefs.