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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. Sorry. But just for now if you scroll down, there he is at sixteen.

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.


     “They had this light with a caricature of Eddie Cantor that would go on, so the rule was, when you see Eddie Cantor, get off the stage.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-02) 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:

Kinetic sculpture. It’s all balanced and close to frictionless. No motors or electricity or magnets involved, nor witchcraft.


How could you practice for this?

Oh! Wonderful!

But that was then. This is now.

There was a big black-and-white photo in the cafe corner of the old Caspar Inn roadhouse bar, of Falling Eagle (his real name, from before his tree career) falling out of a tree he was topping in some year in the 1960s– shot at the exact moment of things going wrong. Falling Eagle lived to fall out of many more trees. (via EverlastingBlort) (click the sound on)

“Stimulates and invigorates. A mechanical tonic for all the organs.” A medicine chair.

Also this.

“We want Muffin the Mule.”


LS/MFT. “So round. So firm. So fully packed.” And it reminds me: remember how the whole world used to smell like an ashtray? Everyone smoked everywhere. At the table in restaurants, in buses and airplanes, in the car, in the toilets, walking down the street, at the gym, on stage getting an award, in a waiting room…

Martin Roberts’ invisible piano. (via b3ta)

An easy explanation of how and why solar electric power cells actually work.

Do as do in a cat. Do as do. As you believe, so do as do.

Pull my string. (This is a short clip from the video of /Give Me Immortality or Give Me Death/ by the Firesign Theater.)

Funny Vietnam stories.

Nowness. Colin Jones (via NagOnTheLake)

Animal eyeballs. They see you. (via NagOnTheLake)

Mask effectiveness.

My favorite Saturday Night Live sketch ever, of my favorite Saturday Night Live cast member ever. This reminds me of Tracy Burns of the old Hit and Run Theater, where they’d be doing a routine and she’d fly away with it into the sky, with everyone else just trying to hang on.

All the two-second-long sax riffs from the /Lethal Weapon/ franchise, which I never saw, but it looks fun. Apparently it’s cops. (via EverlastingBlort)


Light dancing. One of the light sticks gets loose on one end and the kid improvises: “I’m peeing! I’m peeing!”


Time. (via NagOnTheLake)

“I hate everything but I’m not going to do anything about it.”

They’re only suggestions.


Where did I leave my tools? Oh, right, yeah. Thanks for helping me look. Never mind.

This is more like how life feels than just about every other piece of art I’ve seen in the last week. Probably more for girls, in this case. When I find one for boys, I’ll let you know.

Speaking of which, if I were judge, this is the winning dog, right here.

A Night in the Show.

“Says you.”

Baby octopockles, so cute.

Leo Morracchioli covers WAP in metal.

Grandpa guzzled a gallon of good gasoline.

Who you can blame everything wrong in the world on:

So smart. There’s an Aesop’s fable  from 2,600 years ago about something very close to this very trick. (via NagOnTheLake)

How ten competing brassiere styles in the same size actually fit. Apparently, if your concern is /comfort/ then the trade-off is either saggy, boob muffin top or, surprisingly, ’50s rocket nose effect. I’m not sure why but this article reminds me of the angry old crippled man in /My Life As A Dog/ whose only pleasure in life, besides fantasizing about shooting the neighbor who’s constantly hammering on the roof, is closing his eyes while the little boy reads aloud to him from an underwear catalog.

Neural Network natural history. (via NagOnTheLake)

Release the Quacken!

It says /emotional/ but I think it’s just that his hands hurt to do this.

Mentally subtract the chair-drum guy. It doesn’t need it at all.

“I run away to stop the high speed camera.”

How we get a concrete Strat.

How we get a giant nixie tube that almost works.

How we get [fill in blank].

How we get divorced. (via BoingBoing)

A day at the races. It says R.C. models, but there’s no radio control. There’s just the control cables that make the toy climb or fall and keep it from smashing the teeth in of onlookers and the pit crews inside the fence. I’d like to see a compilation of disasters of this sport. I count about 1.5 seconds for a full pirouette, and if the cable length is 40 feet, that’s like 120 miles per hour. If the plane (with motor) weighs as much as a baseball, then it wouldn’t be a trivial mishap; it could kill you. Maybe nothing has ever gone wrong. Nobody has a helmet on, or any protection at all. The arm-mounted fueling system is impressive. It’s as though they just wave at the plane and it’s filled up.

Drone photo awards. Categories in separate galleries. (The fish market, in the Urban category, reminds me of Eavesdown Docks on Persephone, in /Firefly/.)

Honest Trailer for Firefly. That does it, I’ll be watching them all all over again.


One cab’s family. (via NagOnTheLake)


Our friend the atom.

Our friend the blue marble.

The upside-down pyramid of conspiracy theories.

This instant! You wicked child.

Art chart. (via NagOnTheLake)

And happy dogs, especially the little poodly one spinning the chair.

Fourier transforms for birds.

     “Why, sure, I’m a billiard player. Mighty proud to say it, always mighty proud to say it. Helps you cultivate horse sense and a cool head and a keen eye.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-09-25) 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 awhile. (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 Saturday morning.) And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet, if you’re lucky and they still work. A lot of them don’t. Say /shoot/ or say la vie or whatever you say when things aren’t going exactly to your liking, and move on with your life, and try to power through the disastrous disappointment. It’ll be good practice for the coming election. Speaking of which, when you get your mail ballot, vote immediately, even in California. And get your flu shot.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s somewhat uneven but still impressive MOTA show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Bollywood Superman.

Soviet sci-fi cinemas.

Beijing recycling-plant-sourced archive of 850,000 anonymous photographic negatives. (via NagOnTheLake)

Instumentality. The street bounce-juggle-drummer at 2:30. Or the guy drumming on a bucket and pipes and junk in the sand. Or the drummer on balls in water bowls.

This pizzicato guy. (via TheAwesomer)

Fly Me Off The Handel. (To add to /4-chord song/ and /Pachelbel Rant/ and this.)

It’s just so happy.

Food poetry.


The link between settling and bending over.

How to make a ten mile long road and train tunnel under the sea. (via NagOnTheLake)

Clockwork art. Watch the second video.

A.I. art.

Fire art.

Unwitting fire performance art, or possibly deliberate prank. In the planner’s or artist-perpetrator’s) favor, though, hydrogen tugs a balloon upward about eight percent better than helium does, and hydrogen is cheap and not at all in short supply. You weigh the risks and benefits. Sometimes you get away with it, sometimes it blows up in your face. Or just over your head. Wherever it is when it blows up or blows down. (I have a story to tell you about welding-supply hydrogen-oxygen balloons and the proper mix for desired speed and flash and sound, but not right now.) (Except to say, don’t. And if you must, devise a way to light them from a safe distance, like a long line of toilet paper for a fuse, and only in wet winter.) (To estimate a safe distance, see the following video.)

Speaking of which, there was somebody in this camper when the entire air inside exploded from a propane leak and blew the whole thing to smithereens. (In case you ever wondered, this is an example of literal smithereens.) And that person is still alive, and eventually they’re going to be fine.

Exploding underwater fire rings. For the SOAS (short of attention span), drag it to about 8:50).

Organilleros! (via b3ta)

Good point.

For fuck sake. What the hell is the matter with these cops?

Wait a minute, I remember what the matter is. Here:

Our good friend, the long run.

“It was my mom who pointed out that this could be a business for me.”

2020 Audubon bird photography winners.

Too high. Too narrow. Too cold. Too gusty. Would not go there even if they said, “Come on, you gotta get out of the house. You’ll have a good time. All your friends will be there.” They’re not your friends. Friends don’t make you go places you have way more sense than to ever go. A simple /no/ should always be enough. If they keep at you after that and won’t leave you alone, that’s what those pepper spray cans in the checkout counter display in the grocery store are for. You can get some when you go for staple foods and perhaps a treat, and keep one in each pocket of your bathrobe.

The very model.

Chipmunk Movie with voices normalized.

That’s right, baby. Shake it one time. Shake it on down.

Body landscapes.

The fascinating Eye of Sauron-like eye iris that time-lapse-dissolving an M&M makes. (via NagOnTheLake)

/Feed me./ Does it have to be human? /Feed me./ Does it have to be fresh? /Feed me./ Where’m I s’posed to get it? /Feed me, Seymour. Feed me all night looooong./

Speaking of rackets, I have a battery-powered high-voltage electric fly-swatting badminton racket that uses somewhat the same principle to cure AIDS, autism /and/ COVID-19 by electrifying seventeen molecules of water vapor in the air into hydrogen peroxide. $1.99 in Chinatown in 2008, before there even /was/ any COVID-19. And you can hit a (very slow) fly with it, and also knock over potted plants or a lamp, dang. And play badminton and shock the shuttlecock at the same time, so /it/ can fly away across the net and cure autism and warts by remote, way over there.

Phone ordering customer service.

Nietzsche’s message.

“Good morning, Twenty-Seven. How are we feeling today?”

Harpo on Milton Berle’s show.


Advent of the grawlix.

“Complete anarchy in crime-torn NYC urban hellhole.” (Scroll down.)

He doesn’t fidget that way because he’s in particularly bad neurological health for his age –though that is an issue– but because he’s constantly awkwardly balancing, tipped forward on two-inch-plus heel lifts, to pretend to be tall and let his tent-suit disguise his enormous fat belly (even with the man-girdle) and dangling sloped shoulders, and it hurts to hold that position. His back muscles, such as they are, and leg muscles are crying for help, just as everything he does and says is a warbled cry for help, a cry to get him out of there, out of who he is and has been. You think this is a nightmare for you; imagine how much of a nightmare just being him must be, even when he’s alone in the toilet.

Where we’re headed.

Put another log on the fire.

“We had to be careful. Anything that smacked of bestiality was kept out of the paper, but we didn’t go into how he was conceived. We just said he was found in a cave and built on the image.” In fact: “Five U.S. senators are space aliens!”

Love is magic.

I love this. “Should we tell them?” she says. “I’m gonna tell them.”

Rerun from a long time ago, with a new title, dadgummit.

Speaking of which, here’s what it looks like when someone has what they call a /brain event/ on television and it isn’t just a slurry Southern accent and lifetime stupid subject like fishing where you’d never even notice.

Miss Ice centennial.

Be your own mother of dragons. (via NagOnTheLake)

This blacksmith champion Anne, the one on the left, is Anne Bujold, /Lois McMaster Bujold’s daughter/.

And a little about three-time Nebula award winner and seven-time Hugo award winner Lois McMaster Bujold, creator of the Vorkosigan Saga, including one of my favorite space-opera science fiction characters ever, dwarf military genius Miles Naismith Vorkosigan’s mother /Cordelia/. Best line? Okay, that would be in response to a bunkered war general’s barked question, “Where have you been, woman!” Cordelia says, “I went shopping. And look what I got! The price was a bit steep, though.” And she bowls and bumps a heavy shopping bag down the long table of meeting war staffmen for the general to open it and find the /bloody severed head of the enemy leader/, pretender to the throne, who’d been terrorizing their city and potentially the entire empire from the fortified safety of his (their own) palace… Oh, wait, there’s another from the same novella: Sergeant Bothari, incredibly messed up mentally, has bonded with Cordelia, who once rescued him (from, among other things, being compelled by /his/ torturer to torture her!) and now he worships her; he can focus and stay relatively sane and not explode in brute animal violence unless she gives explicit permission, and he’s so grateful. At one point they’re brazening their way past enemy guards; one of the guards says to Bothari, “And just who are /you/.” Bothari says, “I’m the Lady’s dog,” and just stands there and /smiles softly/ at him, all that ready destruction and horror simmering beneath the surface. The big tough armed guards swallow nervously and let them pass. (It’s been ages since I read those books. I might have a word or situation wrong here and there.)

Children of the corn (and) Juking the stats.

     “If life were a game, Boomers got to play on easy, Gen Xers have to play on hard, Millenials are playing on expert and Gen Z’s game crashed while they were trying to download it.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-09-18) 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 awhile. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top.) And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet, if you’re lucky and they still work. Some of them don’t. Or maybe they’re just resting, I don’t know. They’re like the nine-hundred grandmothers in the R.A. Lafferty story about a spaceman who visits a planet where when people get old they don’t die, exactly, they get smaller and tinier and sleepier and sleepier, settling deeper and deeper in the basement of the city, and the very oldest, the size of your thumb, only just half-wake-up to giggle at intruders and infuriatingly refuse to answer your question that you traveled light-years to ask. I just remembered that’s the source of a line I think of every once in awhile, where an angry person is about to destroy someone, to crush someone in his hand because of feeling disrespected, and the tiny helpless someone smiles gently, sleepily up at him and says, “I look at you, you look at me, I wonder if you’ll do it,” and just waits to be set down, because she knows he won’t crush her, and that’s why he doesn’t. I think this might work on a policeman at least as well as whatever else you try. It wouldn’t work on someone with no wisdom at all, so it’s less and less useful, going forward, because that’s the direction the graph of available wisdom is headed, alas.

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

Time-lapse of the fires, from space. At this scale it’s like you could just mist it with a plant spritzer and it would go right out.

No safety harnesses or safety anything, just a vision of the future, engineering, and young people proud to risk their lives for others to have lights and radios and washing machines and whatever they want, to just flip a switch and not even have to think about how it all works, nor say a little OCD rhyming prayer of thanks to Nikola Tesla who invented practically our whole world that still nearly entirely relies on long distance high-tension A.C. power transmission, 127 years after the Chicago World Exposition where he unveiled it.

The other side of that daredevil coin: Russian stunt loons. Also, consider, they’re not just doing these things; they’re drunk too, a lot of them.

Double Indumnity. (via NagOnTheLake)

Detective story.


Psycho a Go-Go. The man is wild for the woman spazzing in there. He even grabs up a blanket to peek around, as if that will help and, peeking around it, gets it near his face so naturally he starts chewing on it. He’s out of his head with frustration about the plastic cage and can’t get at the woman. Now, I would think, /First, unplug the record player. See what happens then./ Probably a calm would settle on the situation and things would improve. That’s another good lesson: shut off the noise for a minute, the noise might be the whole problem.

George Carlin explains Fury Road eight years in advance, though he’s really explaining all of history and it fits Fury Road because so is that. I was raised by women; I don’t have the problems he’s talking about. I have other problems that are equally all somebody else’s fault.

Witch Doctor.

Gargoyle. It might not be a good idea to treat the extradimensional Hellmouth beneath the cursed Denver airport as a joke. But they captured a gargoyle and harnessed it as a figure of fun. They must know what they’re doing. (via NagOnTheLake)

I love these people.



Rocket fail. Turn the sound on.

Cheap green-ass traish. (via b3ta)

A sad bird story. (via MissCellania)

What do you suppose somebody did to this dog with a hose once that made it so terrified of it? And why is a broken pet’s psychic misery so funny to people in so many videos? I’m thinking of the stock video of people, not only Russians, laughing their head off because a cat fell off the refrigerator onto its head, or got burned or shocked, or two pets are goaded into being pissed off enough to be murdering each other, or drunken auto-mechanic boys, at walnut-brain-level mentality from just being boys, let alone drunk, are playing a prank where they inflate someone’s butt with the compressor. A tip: that prank kills dozens of people every year and ruins the life of hundreds more. Mostly in Russia, apparently. It only takes four pounds of pressure to perforate your entire lower G.I. tract. Maybe they should teach that in school. And it’s mostly in the U.S. where boys stick fireworks up their butt and burn and cripple themselves. At the risk of giving you the impression that I’m overly attentive to this subject, I’m merely repeating it all to save your life. One day you’ll be twenty years old and not very bright in the back of the shop on a slow day and somebody only slightly brighter than you will pick up the compressor hose and go, “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” and you’ll hear him out and simply decline, and that’ll be the end of it, like they should leave this dog alone. Or, I dunno, feed it hamburger through a hose and cure it of its kinetic screaming hose-o-phobia.

Speaking of which, ridiculously expensive public art: “The fist, the big dick and the golden butthole coming together, it’s pure Michigan.”

Alexandr Misko’s latest. See? This is what Russians and Eastern Europeans should do instead of the thing with the compressor /or/ the stunts with the cars.

Saw that coming. I hope it didn’t hurt its feet in the propellers.

Moving pictures. (via b3ta)

I thought the camera for this must be on a balloon or a kite. But Marilyn Bellamy (of NagOnTheLake) showed me a picture of the view backward from the tugboat. There’s a ninety-foot-tall structure of some sort of cargo on the barge it’s pulling. The camera is on the top of that.

Further zen motoring. (via b3ta)

World of moss. (via NagOnTheLake)

Nope. No. When I was in high school my friend Randy and I climbed down into something not quite as bad as this. You could actually sit up a bit and move around each other in places. But it was dirt, an old mine, not hard rock, so it might fall at any time, had actually fallen mostly in, and I put up with it and proceeded downward and across and downward until I was screaming inside, and the flashlight was going out (we had one flashlight), and there was a place you had to go /under the muddy water to go farther, if indeed there was even another open place on the other side/. That was the straw for me to panic/flee/scramble out. Finally, afterward, back up in the light and space and air, I was like /NEVER AGAIN/, of course, but I was quiet about it because I didn’t want Randy to think I was a pussy (!); that was the important part, not maybe dying suffocating beneath the earth, your chest pressed flat by eighty feet of earth and your own stupidity, but /not being a pussy/. Randy said, “I’d like to come back here with the scuba tank, and–” GAH! He wasn’t kidding. He said, “You don’t have to. I’ll come back by myself.” No. Jesus. Well, he’s dead anyway now. I already told you enough times what happened to Randy; I don’t wanta talk about that anymore. Maybe later, next time somebody, usually a toxic man, starts talking about getting a bunch of guns to protect their family from other people with a bunch of guns. Until there’s a loaded, ready-to-fire gun within reach of everyone confused or jealous or disappointed or insecure or racist or startled, and/or afraid someone will think he’s weak if he doesn’t grab it up and use it, which is the exact wrong way around to think about that.

Dancin’ Queen.

Learn about the hurdy gurdy.

Party on, Wayne. Party on, Garth. (via NagOnTheLake)

Asian love potion.

Ceilings. Nothing more than ceilings. Ceilings of luh-wuvvv.

There is a church in France, where the floor is full of plants.

Coming climate migration. (Scroll slowly.)

Rerun: Small booj. Larger booj. BWAAAAH.

For people for whom computer keyboards don’t have enough keys.

Oh, yeah? Well, anthropomorphize /this/.

Vic Berger’s Reverend Jim Bakker compilation. (40 min.) (via b3ta)

Antique micrographia.

Coronet Films: Hundreds of hours of instruction, all about how to be a person.

“The world’s really fucked but this show will be pretty good.”

Ten things your parents were right about. A slideshow.

Covid statistical data. Graphs. Items to click on and interact with. Knock yourself out.

Subway to Coney Island. A coney is a wild rabbit. The island is named after the rabbits that used to live there, like the Canary Islands, and Sardinia, and so on. The canaries and sardines and coneys are all long gone now, but according to the Buddhists they’re all still out there somewhere, interacting, trading bodies (trading up or down, depending). There’s no evidence for that, but it’s a tradition, like telling children that Grandma’s in Heaven, watching you brush your teeth and take out the trash without being told, and dead pets are not dead but gone away to a farm somewhere, speaking of pets. Pet sardines, there’s an idea. The old kind that tasted way better and were not so mushy. I opened a can of tuna last week and you could pour it out like oatmeal. Back when these kids were riding that grafitti-embroidered subway, canned fish was pretty good.

Never shoot at the water, son. Here, watch me shoot at the water to show you why to never shoot at the water. I hope there’s nobody anywhere on the entire other side of the lake, though. Don’t worry about it. Use your noodle, boy, if there was, they’d all be shooting back by now.

And get a real tree guy to knock your tree down. Not a /Goddammit! Shit-shit-shit!/ guy. If you must get a GSSS guy, use this level of foresight in framing the shot so we can all enjoy it. This is the gold standard of framing such an event.

The Trump plan.

Reg number.

“Oh, you’re a dear. And I’m a pig. So I’ll do it.”


The thinnest place in your password security, illustrated.

And Bobby McFerrin singing Joan Armatrading’s /Opportunity/ for dessert.

Pantone 130U.

     “Mars is burning. Tens of thousands are dead. And nobody is thinking, nobody is listening, they’re just reacting.” — Picard

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-09-11) 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 awhile. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top.) And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet, if you’re lucky and they still work. Some of them don’t. Or maybe they’re just resting, I don’t know. They’re old. If they want to get up and dance, great; if they don’t, let them be.

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

Emma Peel is dead.

“Well, just like that, except it was yellow.” (via NagOnTheLake

A puzzle.

They look so happy but they weren’t, really. People of that era were all drunk nearly all the time and/or on amphetamines, and in private, at home, they bickered bitterly over the slightest thing. Life was jagged. All the food did taste better, though, even airplane food, because they were young. The older you get, the more everything tastes like cardboard, and the more salt and spices you have to put in it to make you want it at all. (via NagOnTheLake)

For example, they used to make cigaret filters out of blue asbestos. It was the perfect material for the job.

Brickwork. (via b3ta)

Time of Water.

Fun at the beach.

Gilbert Gottfried reads the sweary lyrics of what passes for popular music now. (I saw a cartoon where a small child says, “What is WAP?” and the mother says, “Wash your hands. Apply hand sanitizer. Put on your mask.”)

Rerun: NWA FTP.

Appropriate accompaniment.

Further appropriate accompaniment.

Slideshow of a beached ekranoplan. (via NagOnTheLake)

They’re like living jewelry. (via TYWKIWDBI)

Details of the sun.

Rocket test launch and landing. Mic in rocket. (via b3ta)


These are some good questions, even if you don’t ask anyone but yourself and think about it.

Winning astronomy photography.

Crimson Dark is a webcomic I particularly like, and not only because it’s great but the artist/writer peppers the whole thing with instructions and detailed descriptions of the equipment he uses and his whole process. He’s been doing it all his adult life, in between his tech jobs. Here are some pages about halfway through (551-555) showing the steps of producing Crimson Dark. Starting at page 1 and reading 15 minutes a day at a minute a page gives you a over two months of enjoyment before you have to start waiting for each new page. Or you could snarf up the whole immense saga in one 17-hour day, less time than it takes him to produce a single page.

Even more beautiful than the original.

The real reason.

Marionettes. The Lonely Goatherd song from Sound of Music.

Now you know what the nine quarters trick is. I saw the title and I thought it was going to be about putting nine quarters in your nose, and you’d have to have a hell of schnozz to do that. I can only get five in mine without tearing something. Or two penlights, to do the trick where you inflate and deflate your nose in the dark and pretend to be an old-fashioned police car light. Kids love that one. But this one’s okay too.

This flying-grain-silo technology will one day take us to Mars, a filler goal. It’s a waste of time to limit space enthusiasm to the planets. Cities in space, among the resources of space, without all the fabulously wasteful landing on and taking off from big stupid planets, is what the future calls for. But if you have to say Mars to get people excited, say Mars.×900.jpg


The story of the three little philosophers.

A kinetic poem. (via NagOnTheLake)

Thank you, mask math.

It also works if you play it and close your eyes and think of one of the two words– you hear the one you think of. There’s a lesson in this. (via TYWKIWDBI)

Deep face drawing. (via b3ta)

Try it yourself. (also b3ta) (optimized for Chrome browser)


An endless hellscape of pain and madness.

The Jerry McSafety song.

And forty-five British soap stage-slaps. You bitch. You cow. You bastard. How dare you. How /could/ you. Don’t you ever say that to me again. And so on. It’s interesting to watch because, though I know that people probably have actually slapped people in real life, I’ve never seen it clearly, up close and in person, except in theater with no real contact. I’m having trouble imagining doing it, myself; it’s like the gears of the thought get stuck and won’t turn to that point. Try it– choose a person and /imagine/ actually slapping them. Your hand would stop. You couldn’t do it. You’d be afraid you’d miss by a small amount and sprain a finger or scratch them or poke them in the eye (!) or clap their ear and burst their eardrum. And another thing: the slappee just stands there /looking right at them/ while the slapper, clearly out of his or her mind with anger, waves a hand all the way out to the side, obviously about to do it; why doesn’t the slappee’s head reflexively turn or duck backward three inches and blunt or avoid the blow? Why doesn’t their own arm come up to block it? How is it possible to slap anyone who doesn’t want it… Oh. Maybe they want it. People are weird, and things they do on teevee are even weirder. But here’s something else: you have no trouble at all imagining /entirely/ impossible things like clenching your fists and flying up into the air. But just to consider violence: since I was small I’ve dreamt of every sort of it /except/ slapping, including something like what the Hulk does to Loki, where you pick the enemy up by an ankle, or both ankles, and slam them over and over against the walls and floor until they’re all busted up like a sockful of bloody pennies. See, you have no trouble at all imagining that. You’ve probably dreamed of it yourself long before that movie came out. So funny, though, when the Hulk does it, regards what’s left of Loki and grunts, “Puny god.”

Journey to Dagnabbit.

     “Maybe there is a planet which is fighting with global cooling, and maybe we could trade corporations.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-09-04) 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 awhile. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top.) And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet, that are even harder to get to and to make play right as you go farther back in time until, far enough and nothing works at all anymore, just like real life, except backwards, because plenty of vacuum cleaners and toasters made in the 1950s still work great, where the microwave oven from 2014 is rusted through already and still heats up the food but in patches because the floor inside doesn’t turn around anymore but just goes /shove, shove, shove/.

The last thing I did before printing out last night’s show to read was to, just on a whim, experiment with globally replacing all instances of plain Donald Trump with impeached president Donald Trump. That turned out to be a mistake. Not that he wasn’t impeached, he was, by the house of Congress comprised of representatives of the American people who, unlike impeached president Donald Trump, were actually elected by majority vote, after Republican gerrymandering, dirty tricks and massive voter suppression too. But it just made me stumble over each reading, feeling strange about leaving all the writers’ names on something I changed en masse with a click, or considering explaining every time, and sometimes doing that and sometimes just stuttering. Sorry. Not trying /that/ again. I think we all learned something here today. Though the Trump Trump Trump of everywhere you look and everything you read points up how much of what’s going so deadly wrong in the U.S. is directly connected to and flowing from that giant serial-lying mob-bossy orange turd and his handlers and enablers and pollution cloud of armed-and-belligerent racist lumps who adore him for giving them permission to cut loose and let it all hang out, many of them in government service now, not just on the borders but all the way through, getting away with literal kidnapping and/or conspiratorial gang offenses and/or cowardly murder or just thuggish bullying every damn day. Men with actual Nazi tattoos on their hands and necks and not even hidden discreetly in their clothes who were hired and sworn in and who promised with fresh-scrubbed faces to protect and serve; well, we see what that swear is worth to them, or maybe they crossed their fingers behind their back about exactly who to protect and who to serve and that makes it right. People descended from immigrants cheering at treating immigrants way worse than their own great-grandparents were treated when they came here in the good old days, tired and poor, tempest tossed, fleeing persecution, for a better life, traveling a hundred or a thousand miles for a pandemic-time maskless leader-worship ceremony, bellowing at American Indians on Indian land to /get outta the way and go back where you came from/. Sorry again. Sorry for the terrible world. Sorry for all that cancer I caused, and Hiroshima and everything, and the Triangle Shirtwaist disaster. Stopping now. Putting a sock in it. Murfle-burfff. Mm-nurf. Forget it, joik, it’s Labor Day.

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

Seven of the nine basic forms of juggling.

Real-time lightning map. Lightning everywhere in the world. Zoom in on a hot place. Grab and move the map, zoom some more. About a hundred lightning bolts strike every second. Eight million every day. All year long, all the time.

Sonora Art Village. (via NagOnTheLake)

Another in a series of unsettling but fascinating music videos where the original sound is removed and replaced by what you’re actually looking at. (via b3ta)

Oh, uh-uh, oh.

Beckett. (via b3ta)

How do you not listen to a Roman candle of pyrokinetic bullshit, though. I remember being little and being surprised to find that you couldn’t shut out sound by covering your ears. It seemed like it worked for other people, but not for me. And now, six decades later, I don’t even have to cover my ears. Pretty soon I won’t be able to hear a bloody thing but Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump.

Stop the madness.

An open letter to Republicans.

Flamingo fuitetterung unter wasser. It’s kind of like a shoemaker tapping the back of his hand on a shoe to make the glue settle. Remember shoe repair shops? When’s the last time you saw a shoe-repair shop. They used to be all over the place. Remember the way it smelled in there, the leather and chemicals. And every shoe repair man had the same inch-long cigaret in the corner of his mouth every time you went in. And what a mess! But they knew where everything was and could go straight to it. And Sandy Glickfeld in /Elves and the Shoemaker/, kicking her shoes off after a hard day, singing out, “My dogs is barkin’!” (via Everlasting Blort and NagOnTheLake)

Bruce Trumpet sent the link for this. Alligator chases laser dot. When it’s a cat, it looks like it’s having fun. When it’s a turtle or lizard or frog it looks more like teasing it, though. Maybe it’s fun for reptiles and amphibians, I don’t know. I remember a video where a man teases his pet frog with a phone game of insects to poke at; the frog gets tired of shooting its tongue at the screen and getting no bugs to eat. It suddenly strikes like a snake to bite the man’s thumb so he startles and throws the phone up in the air. I heard my Uncle Pat in my head go, “Uh-huh,” meaning both, /Saw that coming,/ and /I told ya./ I think more and more people now feel like that frog, and it’s hard to blame them. The thumb is right there. And more and more people look like a talking thumb, have you noticed? Tucker Carlson comes to mind. And a sheriff I saw last week in a video who was practically a Sontaran but more jellylike, not hard. Search for /talking thumb/, you’ll see.

Man percussively breaks up the mortal squabble between a pigeon and a rat. “Come on, you guys. That ain’t the way. Make nice.” BANG! And then they saunter away, like, We’ll settle this /later/, Coy. I’ll see you /later/.

Wow, you’re Billy Billings!

Synchronized swimming to Stairway to Heaven on Japanese teevee. In regular life you don’t often see people do upside-down splits in bathing panties. There’s nothing wrong with it, it just seems odd, somehow. You imagine yourself there, doing that (as if you could, ha) and feel awkward. Maybe it’s because it’s an extreme form of the one thing a traditional mermaid can’t do. Look up Darling Mermaid Darlings.

“I am a mermaid, my daughter’s a mermaid, and my granddaughter’s a mermaid!”

Yeep, heep, yaaaaw, neep! (repeat)

Hup! Hoop! Hup!


Nightclubs in the daytime. (via Everlasting Blort)

Nighthawks at the Diner in various forms.

Speed-fiddled-with drone shots of, around and through the streets and pathways of Mont Saint-Michel. Dreamlike flight.

A short Halloween pre/post-view. The dollar store already has the Halloween stuff up. As if there’ll be a Halloween this years.

Another in a series of unsettling music videos where the original sound is replaced by what you’re actually looking at. (via b3ta)

Beckett. (via b3ta)

“That is what happens when you foment unrest.”

How we get a Chinese teapot. (via Cynical-C)

A dance to integration. (via NagOnTheLake)

And /Lest We Forget the Horrors/, the list through August 2020:

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

     “If everybody always lies to you, the consequence is not that you believe the lies, but rather that nobody believes anything any longer. And a people that no longer can believe anything cannot make up its mind. It is deprived not only of its capacity to act but also of its capacity to think and to judge. And with such a people you can then do what you please.” -Hannah Arendt

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-08-28) 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

The my-fault-one-week-belated San Francisco Mime Troupe Tales of the Resistance Episode 4 is half an hour into this show, so all is forgiven, I hasten to insist. There’s Chapter 16 of Jay Frankston’s book El Sereno, the biblical poetry of dice-throwing algorithms, Harper’s Weekly Review, Major Mark Scaramella of the Anderson Valley Advertiser on local Measure B developments, Scott M. Peterson on the subject of the Newcomb-Benford law applied to nonprofit corporate bookkeeping crookedness, a one-armed schizophrenic UK rollerskater’s spring-powered superhuman stabbing spree, murder, mayhem, sundry petitions to reach in and save the world from its cruel and bizarre self at various crucial access points of its anatomy (such as the elephant-abusing Monterey Zoo) and a Steve Heilig rundown of a single week of slightly pre-Reichstag-fire Trumpian shenanigans. John Sakowicz on the sabotage of Jackie’s historic rose garden. QAnon for, if possible, even dummier dummies. Prototype microscopic semiconductor doctor robots that, when activated by lasers, march through flesh to do their tiny but essential surgical work. One solution to the ethical problem of Dark Batman. Numinous childhood half-memories of family road trips. Paul Modic’s apple-picking three-way unprotected sex adventure. Sports strikes, dreams, delusions, a tourist guide to the very real and ever-enlarging Shrieking Black Portal of Ashtabula, and finally Greg and Sharon Ross’ Futility Closet Podcast, this time about Saint Nicholas Winton and the Czech Kindertransport that saved thousands of children from the inevitable result of /last/ century’s time of putting unlimited power in the hands of a racist, narcissistic madman in a man-girdle and lift shoes.

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


The soft, sad story of John Wanda and his Wandaland.

1901 they had this. We can’t have this nor have a current-day version of this. Why do you suppose that is?

Captain Marvel’s stunt double’s demo reel. (via Everlasting Blort)

Eh, it’s a living. (via Everlasting Blort)

Oil, water, alcohol. (via b3ta)

Honest ad for the US Postal Service.

“You can’t wink quick enough to escape.”

Exactly how it works.

Protect yourself with Elder Sign.

Indian coronavirus song. (via b3ta)

The voice in your head.

A lot of coincidences.


There, I fixed it for you. (Further in the Adventures of Karens.)

The kid should see this.

An oddly lovely devotional-sounding song titled /The Moon Made Me Shit My Pants/ improvised in real time while writer-musician, member of the hip-hop band The Rubberbandits, and podcasting Scotsman Blindboy Boatclub, moves around in the gamespace of Red Dead Redemption and sings about whatever he sees.

And (thanks to BoingBoing) here’s part of just one of Blindboy’s hundreds of podcasts. The story starts about 28 minutes into the recording and runs for an hour, about The (Immaculate) Arse Children (part 1). (For part 2, you’ll need the book /The Gospel According to Blindboy/.)

How we get rubber stamps. (via NagOnTheLake)

I love this guy’s music projects. An odd, bulbous tone, but it suits it.




“It’s like being blasted in the face with a firehose all the time.”

I know it’s just a tree on fire, but what it looks like is a giant right hand made of hot lava karate-stabbing up out of the earth like Uma Thurman in /Kill Bill/.

A sample of the great giddy happiness that monorail travel and the new productivity drugs everyone was on at the time can bring. (via MissCellania)


Think how cool it would be to live back then and have your job be inventing things like this. Somebody comes into your lab and says, Put that down and pay attention. We want something that does such-and-such by next week. And you go, No problem; I’ll need the chemicals on this list, some old airplanes you don’t care about too much, two broken refrigerators and one good one, and a crate of Moxie. They get on the phone, you have the parts by closing time, stay up all night drinking cold Moxie, welding things together, and by eight o’clock the next morning, voila. You go home. Juanita looks up from her calligraphy, says, Where were you? You say, Making ships invisible, kind of, but– that’s nice: a big curly H made of Medieval heraldic animals and fish. It’s really pretty. And you just love each other and have plenty of money and no problems and the world is perfect. (via NagOnTheLake)

Free online cognitive tests.

Keep. It. Together. Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together, keep it together, keep it together. I heard it in my memory of a movie. /Bowfinger/. Here’s how to say it right, just this part:

(Exclamation mark in parentheses.) (Which I describe rather than just put an exclamation mark in parentheses because that looks like a butt, and that wouldn’t be what I mean. I mean, this astounds me. I can easily memorize how to do it, anyone can, but I don’t get how it works.)

How we do it.

Art. (via NagOnTheLake)


Jet. (You have to look elsewhere for the years of development of the system and the grueling and bruising training and physical exercise that came before this seemingly effortless flight. It looks like flying in a dream but it’s more like balancing trays of dishes, crossing a deafeningly loud wiggling tightrope with no net. Over a field of rocks.)

The moths.

Rerun: The bugs.

The bees.

Awkward family photos. There is no bottom to this page.

I think these photos are perfect. Not awkward or ceepy at all. In a superior timeline, these would be normal high-school yearbook photos, and each one would have a sound.

I don’t know who Eric Andre is, but he’s brilliant and terrifying. This was my introduction to Eric Andre:

Thirteen styles of Creep.

I’m thinking of starting a campaign to get one of these instruments for Carl Shoen. He could blow the fricking /flup/ out of something like this:

Computer-generated realistic imaginary people. (Scroll to low-right and click on Another, and Another, and so on.)

Paper-flipping parkour.

Stop-O-Mation painting film. (via NagOnTheLake)

In real life your locale on Earth is many light years away from where it was hundreds of millions of years ago, but if you don’t care to get technical about it and are willing to only go by where your bit of land was relative to the land around it, and ignore that the inner structure of Earth has always been a swirling milkshake, then here’s where your address was way back when. (via Neatorama). (Give it an address and a year.)

They all knew then, they all know now.

Recently declassified documentary of Soviet Union’s 50 megaton clean thermonuclear bomb. (I skipped you to the good part, but you can go back and watch its railroad train if you like.) (via BoingBoing)

Song legends Karaoke. “Bala nanuw, Ahhh needah dow, Bana ling mada dow. Dee dah m’dee dow L’tee. Bah’da hum nahde hee ahmaw nauw. A’lee naw duuuuuuh.” (via b3ta)


It’s funny because this reminds me of Frank Zappa saying, “Did I hear you say you want some more, well, here’s some more,” in /Dyna Moe Humm/.

Speaking of whom, I was casting about for different versions of /Smoke On The Water/, and this is the one I like the most, right here. It reminds me of the old Mendocino Community School. There was always something like this going on in the band shed. The only thing I’d advise here is, if the bass player would fidget-step around closer to the beat instead of at random, that thumping noise the mic picks up would sound entirely on purpose. Or set the mic stand base on some soft dish sponges. You can pay forty bucks for a complicated clip that holds a mic in a web of cloth-covered rubber bands (that is hard to adjust and soon fails anyway) or you can get a bag of four or six sponges from the dollar store, for a dollar, that last until you lose them. And if something spills, Moxie maybe, and you need a sponge, you always know where one is.

Microsoft Flight Simulator versus real life.


Plants sped up to how it feels to them, with pleasant musical accompaniment.

“Stole a loaf of bread, went to jail, given riches by someone, gained political office, took part in rebellion against the government, has longstanding feud with government official, ultimately influences his enemy to defeat himself. With singing!”

Apropos of little, just today I was thrilled to learn that Firesign Theater once made a movie of their album /Everything You Know is Wrong/. Their cinematographer, Allen Daviau, went on to cinematograph E.T., which, like Everything You Know Is Wrong, involves a visit by space aliens; he made Empire of the Sun, The Color Purple, and many other fine films. But, as thrilled as I was to find all that out, I’m even more saddened to learn that, like 185,000 other Americans, Allen Daviau just died of COVID-19. Watch the film of /Everything You Know Is Wrong/ on Youtube. Note: They left some parts out, and somehow the link deposits you in the middle so you have to drag the line back to start at the beginning. That said, here it is:

Also Chad Boseman, /the/ Black Panther, died just last night, not of COVID-19 but of colon cancer, at 43. His health details were a closely guarded secret. From the BBC: “/Marshall/, /Da 5 Bloods/, /Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom/, /The Black Panther/– all were filmed during and between Boseman’s countless surgeries and chemotherapy.” I’m not sure why this affects me so, when so much of the horror in the world rolls off me like water off a duck’s back, but I’m sitting here weeping so hard I can barely see to type. Fuck. /Bloody fucking hell!/

Cue des cris internes.

     “Goddamn bugs whacked us, Johnny.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-08-21) 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

I blew it about playing Episode No. 4 of the San Francisco Mime Troupe’s summer radio drama series. Due to personal vicissitudes and the continual universal bitch-slap of life anymore I used /all/ the shortcuts in getting ready, and one of those is to dump all the recorded work that I might like to use (assortment of topical break music, Futility Closet podcast, illustrative audio for particular stories, Mime Troupe show, etc.) into the player folder without renaming or flagging anything. So the most important thing wasn’t at the top of the list in all caps but rather somewhere in the lower middle with the Laotian hip-hop, and it didn’t stand out, so I just forgot.

They’re providing new shows every two weeks; I’ll play the missed one 9:30pm this coming week, Oct. 28, and then Episode 5 on Sept. 4, and we’re back on schedule.

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

This is fine. (via the Anderson Valley Advertiser)

Fork, in the sense of objects forking, beginning with a fork.

Anderson Cooper tears the MyPillow CEO open like a bag of chips. In the film of these times, Fred Willard would play that guy, but Fred Willard is dead. The MyPillow guy is totally Fred Willard’s interpretation of Vala’s con-man father in Stargate SG1.


I’m happy-crying all the way through. These superhuman little Dutch dancers are superhuman!

Electrochemically speaking, and way oversimplified, this is happiness, magnified and slowed way down. “That filament is inside a cell though. So, the dragging is happening not from one part of the brain to another, but one part of a cell to another.” So just one cell’s worth of happiness, then. Better than nothing.*

Manners in church. (via Everlasting Blort)

It’s a rumble.

Cute beach cars. Wicker seats! (via NagOnTheLake)

“And just where in the galaxy do you think you’re going dressed like that, young lady? You trot your little bio-fanny back inside the ship and put on something decent.” “Oh, pish! Remember how we were at that age? Go on, sweetie, have fun at Xeno-Orgy. Just be back before third moon. And call if you get too intoxicated to fly; I’m happy to come get you.”

This is actually true.

She hates him.

Duetto Buffo di due Gatti.

You don’t say.

Let a thousand balloons balloom.×1059/media/img/photo/2020/08/photos-week-1/a20_AP20221539520659/original.jpg

Jack Gilmour sent me the link to this search-results gallery of bulbously retro-future motorcycles.

Forty Hamlets all on the same page.

For people who miss working in theater, two minutes of calming sound therapy.

USA COVID-19 K-12 SCHOOL CLOSURES, QUARANTINES, AND/OR DEATHS. (“High traffic on this sheet forces us to push out the published link to this sheet. This is why scrolling and seeing all the tabs at once isn’t ideal. This works best on a computer zoomed out a bit.”)

Where Led Zeppelin music came from. You’ve got about half an hour of reading a listening here.

The Black music history library.

Line riders: Beethoven’s 5th.

An ad for real internet. Which we should already have, and for cheaper than what we’re paying for crap internet.

“We are here. Making the same mistakes.”

Bad Lip Reading project does the Axios interview.


I’m having a little trouble imagining American kids being brought to do this, much less being able to.

Supersonic pingpong ball.

That’s the eucalyptus talking.

You’re Human Like The Rest Of Them.

The Seoul of the architect.


The truth about dust. I’ve skipped you ahead to the answer.

Modern Yiddisha vaudeville.

I’ve read things being described as /deeply weird/. These videos would be that.

“Nobody should ever be the second person to die in a wave pool. Close the fuckin’ wave pool!”

He’s driving a truck whose load alone is eight times the bridge’s posted weight limit. “This is America,” he snarls at the sign, “No-one’s gonna tell /me/ where I can and can’t drive my truck.”

Philosophy of humor.

A fresh variety of the robot dance.

They really know how to have fun over there.

Making a cute mini compound crossbow.

A patent for the glowing-red-eyed interrogation skeleton and confession recorder.

Another thing that looks like it just realized something and says, “Hm.”

Eddie Izzard. The mouse is under the table. Sandra Bullock is in the bus with the bomb.

The only ones I don’t like are the ones where they’re getting hit in the head with a bat. Apparently my subconscious isn’t afraid of the other damage and threats, just getting imaginarily hit in the head with a bat.

Providing strangers with theme music. Of course nothing like this could safely be done now, what with brass instruments being a virus bazooka. Also someone would shoot you, and then seven people would shoot them and each other, and it would expand like one of those chain-reaction demonstrations involving a whole floor covered with mousetraps when you drop a single feather in the middle.

And who doesn’t feel like this now all the time? And if you were to ask, Which do you mean, the ant or the bee? I would say, Exactly.


Consciousness, the fly in the erntment.

     “When we go up to the shelves in the reading-room of the British Museum, how like it is to wasps flying up and down an apricot tree that is trained against a wall, or cattle coming down to drink at a pool.” -Samuel Butler

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-08-14) 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

Just before seven p.m. they did one of their public safety power cutoffs in Cotati, where I’ve been doing the show from for the duration of the SIP, from Juanita’s apartment, and the electricity didn’t come back on until almost ten p.m. That’s to explain why I started the show not at nine but an hour late. Also, when the light came on and I got all the machines going and was printing the show out and playing a 1955 warning film about the scourge of marijuana and drug addiction, my nose began to tickle, so I went into the bathroom to deal with that with a sharp scissors, like I have to do now every two or three weeks because I’m old and, you know, hair grows in places it never did before, but I was in a hurry and accidentally /cut high up on the inside of my nose and began dripping blood everywhere./ I shoved a crumpled square of toilet paper in to slow that down and proceeded from there. It took the whole first four hours of the show to stop bleeding, all the time being way more of a tickly annoyance than just leaving my nose the fuck alone would have. Let that be a lesson to you. Learn from others’ mistakes and don’t be in a hurry, and use safety scissors for a job like that… Also they might be going to shut off the power all over the entire Bay Area after dark tonight, for the /extreme heat and lightning fire danger/, and I see on the map that there’ll be lightning and maybe wind danger in Mendocino and Lake Counties too, so if you’re not on the Nixle alert schedule, or whatever, be warned. So it begins. The night before the show some nutball rode around on his bicycle on the south end of Ukiah setting /ten fires/ in less than half an hour. They put all the fires out and caught him and set his bail at one million dollars. That used to be a lot of money. A /millionaire/, they’d call you, to the tune of Mark Knopfler singing the word /millionaire/ in /Money For Nothing/, and you could have a new car any time you needed one, and travel to other countries, and get married and divorced on a whim as many times as you liked, and eat steak, and if a policeman were to pull you over for going fifty in a school zone, when he saw who you were he’d say, “Oh! Sorry, Mister Vanderschnoodle, my mistake, carry on,” and you’d tip him a twenty and sail away. You wouldn’t be riding around on a bicycle in 106-degree heat setting fields on fire with your drug pipe lighter.

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

Our sun, image decoded from NASA space observatory data by a hobbyist. Beautiful, isn’t it? Apparently anyone can have all the NASA data and do things like this because we paid for it. (Click on the image once to go to the real one, and then click on that to enlarge it.) Whether you’re looking or not, the sun, like quadrillions of other stars, is close to a million miles wide and vastly violently chaotically furious, has been for billions of years and will be for billions more. It’s capable of safely powering all our toys and cars and fun as well as of course food production, if we’re ever just smart enough to do it all that way. It’s also spying on you, I’m told, in concert with 5G and Wuhan virus chips the size of a grain of rice. I just got email from a woman who says, whenever people are looking at their phone, or even only have a phone and are near you, they’re scanning your metabolism for Bill Gates’ benefit and hoovering all the information out of /your/ phone for purposes unknown but probably bad. Yes, the sun is spying on you. Twenty years ago a man called me at KMFB to explain about how the CIA had x-ray satellites that could count the money in your pocket even if you hid in the basement. I wasn’t worried, but now, with the sun and all, and the 5G…

Digitally repaired, stabilized, enhanced, colorized motion picture of now-long-dead children playing at the beach in 1896, being surveilled by the latest technology. (via Everlasting Blort)

So the vaccine would be the Holy Hand Grenade, then.



The great game. (via Everlasting Blort)

This reminds me of the famous cartoon where the woman says, “It’s two a.m. Are you ever coming to bed?” and the man says, “I can’t yet. /Someone is wrong on the internet/.” It also reminds me, not as much, really, but reminds me, of an old National Lampoon Shary Flenniken comic where a couple have taken in their friend for the night because she’s miserable and crying because her husband cheated on her. The man stays up comforting the guest, and rubs her shoulders, and one thing leads to another and then they’re having sex on the couch, while the ghostly smoke-like hand-shape of the man’s wife’s cartoon speech bubble wafts through the house, saying faintly from the bedroom upstairs, “Honey? Are you coming to bed?” That was before the internet, see. That’s the way people used to be. Or they would watch old movies on the UHF channel until it, too, like the big network stations, signed off for the night. The entire media that wasn’t newspaper presses actually shut off every night, to give the transmitters time to cool off, and let you change a bad tube, and also to save electricity, because everybody had a job then and they had to go to sleep at night, even if only for a little while. And then at five-thirty or six everything would go on again, with the farm report, and marionette shows about biblical characters, and sometimes just a room with a chair in it. As late as the 1980s the public access teevee channel in Fort Bragg was just a thermometer and wind direction display twenty-four hours a day, and it was silent. (When I tried to set up a radio studio on the channel for the high school kids, the board refused. Alder Thurman, dead now, then mayor of Fort Bragg, on the board, scoffed, “Nobody wants to hear /talking/ coming out of their teevee!” And that was the /public access/ channel.) And if you were late for something important, everybody would have to just wait for you to finally get there to find out why. You didn’t have a phone. Ninety-nine out of a hundred movies and teevee shows and stories all the way up to just a little while ago would be over in thirty seconds if they happened today. “I’m fine, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” somebody would say, or “I almost forgot to say, she’s not dead, she’s just asleep from a potion. Don’t freak out and stab yourself,” and they’d go, okay, great, and that would be the end of it.

Constantinople, before the Turks gave it the works. (via NagOnTheLake)

Unexpected outcome.

One, two, three, four! (via NagOnTheLake and Everlasting Blort)

An essay about the Egyptian Rocky Horror Picture Show: Fangs. It was called Fangs.

“You know the thing!” The poetry of Joe Biden.

Fake news! No combustion!

Paths of desire.

Motorcycle of desire. I adore everything about this majestic piece of work except for the very tail end, which looks like an extended insect proboscis with a little red tongue peeking out, though its offense is mitigated by cleverly being the taillight. And the tool-case panel is open inside to one of the enclosed wheels, but no-one would ever ride in the rain and/or through a puddle with this, and I repeat, /majestic piece of work/, so that’s not such a big deal. If you were a millionaire (see above), would you not call these people and say, “Vanderschnoodle here. I need that machine immediately. Fast, yes, before dinner, if possible, but don’t hurt yourself. Thank you. Yes, the house, not the office. Just leave it on the porch. And can you put a big bow on it? Red bow? It’s a gift. Thanks.”

And what a country. Such lovely public works. It might be nice to be friends with these people, and progress together. But alas, all of our leaders are barking dogs, and whose fault is that?  I can’t remember who said this, maybe it was I, but wouldn’t it be nice if wars –trade wars or bullet wars or bomb and missile wars– were instead fought in person by the assholes in charge who start them, and they’d do it by bashing at each other with pantyhose full of fresh wet shit and medical waste, and if it ever got to real killing involving other people, before they give the order for that they have to personally cut the heart out of all the people they care the most for first, and take a bite, and chew it up and think about it for awhile, though that might not help if they’re as crazy as the ones we have now. They’d just add that step to their plan. (via NagOnTheLake)


72 homemade instruments. (via b3ta)

Bird tree. (via Cliff Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

Tear gas. How does it work? Well, you see, it has something to with molecules… Does this or that substance or method help or work against it? Some people say yes, but some say no. What should I do if I’m being tear gassed? Run away is the best thing, though if you look up how the people in Hong Kong did it you might get some useful ideas. There’s a technique involving traffic cones.



Enjoy the show.

This guy!

Sartre writes Nausea.

Bluegrass Bad.

This /one weird trick/ can save your cow. It works on human predators and burglars, too. You put a mannequin or a picture of a big eye up in your shop and that deters shoplifting. If you put it where people can see it through the window, from outside, the glass lasts years longer. Weird but true.

Art of cards.

Art of chalk. (16 min.)

Art. Stand By Me with dolls.

A little bit farther in that direction.

What do you suppose the fruit stand guy did to piss it off so much in the first place? Think of a few names he might have called it. Big stupid fart, maybe. /Big stupid fart?! Oh, yeah? Come over here and say that!/ No, you come over here, you big stupid fart! /Okay, that does it, you asked for it, here I come!/ (And the guy’s wife is all, “The hell’s the matter with you!” to him. This sort of thing happens all the time. Men always gotta get in a pissing contest over everything, even with weather. But she loves him, and he isn’t an idiot /all/ the time. And it’s just fruit. They can make more.)

Hundred. (via NagOnTheLake)

Further harpejji. If you play an arpeggio on a harpejji, that’s a harpejji arpeggio. And if your name is Reggie and you get a harpeggi made out of rubber and play an arpeggio that’s edgy, that would be Reggie’s edgy stretchy harpejji arpeggio… And if Reggie made a pledge, on a sledge…

Broke a string.

Rocks. (via NatOnTheLake)

A kangaroo, a sheep, two shaggy ponies, two black and white spotted baby goats, a giant turtle, something else I can’t identify, and a capybara, all quietly sharing the same dinner together, watched over by sleepy cats. (via Everlasting Blort) …One time in the 1980s I went to Lynn Kiesewetter’s house to record her playing the piano, for a demo for a job she wanted, and she was out somewhere when I got there, and all the doors were open, and she had a million pets; they were all on the spiral rug in the center of the living room, lying there in a big pile, curled around each other, eyes closed, slowly, gently, sleepily preening and licking and rubbing each other. They didn’t even look up when I came in. At least one rabbit, a turtle, cats, Winnifred the sheepdog, another dog, a goose, a duck, other things, I don’t remember what all was there. I set up the tape recorder and mic stands and mics and mic cords and headphones and ran the extension cord. Lynn eventually came in from wherever she was, said hi to me, said to the pets, “Okay, you guys. Come on, move it.” And they’re all like, /Oh, all right/, and they disentangled themselves and got up and wandered out into the yard. The peaceable kingdom.

A two-hour lo-fi hip hop meditation upon jellyfish.

Two guys quietly sharing a meal of clueless delusions.

Experiment that you won’t be surprised ends with, “FOOFIE!”


How to draw Doug.

How the scam works.

Vampire disco. (via NagOnTheLake)

Where I draw the line. (via BoingBoing)

“That was the one.”

The other, cut-rate but still quite nice though wanting a pressure-wash, Taj Mahal.

Rerun: What happened to the future of giant flying boats?

How to tell.

Rerun: Madilyn wrote some songs of only what miserable assholes who hate her hated at her in YouTube comments.

Sybil Brintrup, R.I.P.  She’s ironing in Heaven now.

From the trailer, I want to see this show. I like Misfits, Heroes, X-Men, Wild Cards, super-powered people in general. The list is long. I also like shows with spaceships in it, and cheap wristwatches, and different shapes of reading glasses, and fluorescent orange sherbet.

Buckminster Fuller: “Have you ever given any thought to how much your buildings actually /weigh/.” It sounds funny when Laurie Anderson quotes it, but he was talking to a crowd of architects and engineers, so probably yeah, they had thought of that.

Explore British and exotic mineralogy. (via NagOnTheLake)


Imperial March. (via MissCellania) (You might have to click the video’s sound on.)

Lost hope and death.

And Hyperspace: A.I. Exploration. (via NagOnTheLake)


Some of my dream journal. And a recipe.

Subject: Lurking in the Unguement. Away. Car camping. Forced flight.

My dream from Monday, 2020-08-10:

It’s night. I’m in a survival camp of hundreds of American kids in India, in dry hills. I’m prepared to suggest some methods of construction, and I have some sewn-together straw demo mats I’ve made to lie on, or for shade, or to put in mud walls to make them stronger. I tell the person in charge –he’s a cross between Charles Bush who used to run the Mendocino Community School, and a dream-only Indian official named Moda Lendry– about the straw, but he says no, we won’t be building here. Why not? I tell about adobe blocks and mud slab construction, and… No.

There’s garbage everywhere, trash bags spilled open; it’s like the camp in scrub oaks next to a music festival at the end of the week.

Now I’m with a generic grammar-school friend. We have to find a place to sleep. There are kids sleeping everywhere in what’s now a semi-indoor place. Here’s a tent/shack with an LP record cupboard and a bare place in front of the cupboard. The boy lies on the floor; I get in the cupboard and pull the slider mostly-shut. I can’t stretch out, but this is okay; I’ve slept in weirder places.

Some more kids come into the room. Their leader, the smallest boy, squeaks, “Goddammit! That’s our place!” I mimic him, then praise his accuracy and authenticity (about the swearing). All clap and approve. But we have to find another bunk place.

We go down dark halls where sleeping kids cover the floor except for the very center. We go into a long low attic-like room. Kids everywhere in here too, but here’s a foam pad greasy with potato chip crumbs. I’m not lying on that. The other boy realizes he has to go back to the cupboard place to get his sleeping bag. I have my horrible old torn nylon one, leaking feathers. I continue down the attic. As soon as there’s a place to lie down, I’ll take it.

(I woke up with the theme music of the /show of the dream/ playing in my head, with a small chorus of Indian-accented children singing: “And I came in the hot sun/ And I lurked in the unguement (?)/ Dirt smashing in the hot sun/ And I ran and ran and ran.)

…That reminds me of Bill Callahan’s dream songs, specifically /Eid Ma Clack Shaw/. Here’s that:

When I got there I found, in the recommendations column, a band called The Beths. Here’s the cute video for their song /Future Me Hates Me/:

I think that goes perfectly with Jonathan Coulton’s song /The Future Soon./ That’s one of my favorite Jonathan Coulton songs. Here’s a solo acoustic version of it without all the bells and whistles. (Couples skate is the time at a rollerskating rink where kids skate holding hands or arm-in-arm, and you’re left out because you couldn’t get up the nerve to ask the girl you like, and you have to watch her go by, around and around, with a boy that you’re afraid she likes, and you’ve blown it forever and are a failure.)

My dreams from Tuesday, 2020-08-11:

First dream. I return to my house after being away for months. There’s an unfamiliar porch in front of the door, and the door pushes open rather than slides, and there are trailers and tents pushed up close all around. It’s dim. People lounge around in folding chairs in the narrow available spaces, smoking, drinking, probably watching me.

When I touch the door it swings inward already unlatched. I pull it to latch it and it won’t; the latch has been broken. I go in. My eyes are adjusted to the dark. All my things are gone; the place is stripped down to the particleboard floor and then some new people’s mess was added, but there’s nobody here now. Bad troublemaker boys laugh outside, knowing I can’t do anything about anything. I did go away. This is what happens when you go away. But I have to sleep here tonight, so I look around for something to jam the door shut with, and while I’m at it, check the other door and the windows in back.

Next dream. I’ve been sleeping on the piled up mess of things in the back seat of a cluttered old car, maybe the Chevy Nova I had in the mid-1970s. Juanita’s here too; somehow she takes up no more room than a pet cat would, in a slot between a wad of clothes and the sill of the back left window. We’re camping in the dirt eucalyptus park at the low end of Lansing street in Mendocino.

There’s some light from Merrie’s cafe. Big fat flies fly around silently inside the car. I reach over the bench seat and crank open the driver’s window, knowing the flies will all leave, given the chance, and they do. I get a room-temperature Polish sausage out of a paper bag and take a few bites. Juanita’s a vegetarian, but she’s hungry, so I give it to her. She nibbles at it, rejects it, says sarcastically (because there’s plenty of food I can eat but little that she can): “You’re good at this.” (She’s commending me for having brought food at all.)

Next dream. I and someone else (?) are moving down the middle of a deep valley river in a barge that drives on the water like a wallowing dump truck. The evil sneaky powerful enemy thugs chasing us somehow transport/teleport their own water vehicle, overshoot and appear in the water a hundred yards in front of us. I drive our barge sideways to wedge it in and stop it abruptly.

Now I’m alone. One of the enemies gets into the water and starts swimming this way fast, like a little speedboat. I climb out the open truck-back of the barge, climb around the uphill side, push off and fly fast backward up through giant trees over the river and up the forest hill, using the power of stroking big swing-strokes with my arms though not able to actually move my arms, just /forcing/ flight by rhythmically clenching my muscles.

At the top of the hill I crash backward through tree branches and just keep going farther and farther in random directions across the plateau to throw off pursuit, until I get to a place of safety that’s like a shopping-mall/refugee-elf city in the trees. I start imagining how to act and what to say so they’ll trust me and get ready to fight the bad people who will be coming soon. Of course the bad people are coming because they’re following me, and that’s my fault, but if I say things in the right order…


Subject: Recipe, then: Hydraulic drive-train. Delamination. Hide, don’t creak. Monster wave.

Real life: Last week there was a sale on Polish sausage. I got a coil of it for two dollars a pound and put it straight into the freezer. Just now I cut off about six inches, cut it into quarter-inch disks. I thawed them and scorched their edges in a pan while I cut half a red onion and two cloves of garlic into a bowl, added dill weed, red pizza pepper, sliced jalapeno peppers, a cup of water, some diced dandelion leaves, half an inch of a stick of butter, a splash of half-and-half and some salt, and put the bowl in the little microwave oven for three minutes.

Take it out, pour in a cup of instant mashed potato flakes, stir. Add the sausage and some frozen petite peas. Stir some more. Then vinegar and ketchup. Wash the pan. Total prep and cleanup time: six minutes. Big bowl of yum! And there’s some orange sherbet/vanilla ice-cream swirl left in the freezer. I know things will get worse, but so far this is some depression, a much nicer disastrous depression than the kind we used to get.

My dreams from Wednesday, 2020-08-12:

First dream. In the back-story of the dream I bought a dead old motorcycle and an MG car with no motor or top-of-body. A reporter and his mechanic friend visit the shop I’m renting to check out my project– I’ve put hydraulic motors in the wheels of the MG and pressure hoses go to and from a pump motor that’s resting, loose, on a shelf inside the right-rear open box of the car. The mechanic guy yanks at the pump experimentally and it comes loose, up into his arms. He’s surprised and apologetic. No harm done. (In the dream this is a complete machine; somehow the pump powers itself and it doesn’t occur to me to wonder at this.)

Later, elsewhere, I worry about maybe having left the padlock hanging open on the main door to the shop spaces I’m using. The owner has his valuable things in there. But thinking about it, visualizing it, it’s not the same place; it’s a place from another dream, years ago. Not my problem anymore, then.

I’m in a house where the pink house was in Caspar, but this is nicer, newer, bigger. In the dream another /I/ has lived here for awhile and I’m stepping in to replace him as he steps to /another/ place. I wonder if there were cameras running in here the whole time, because what if I did something embarrassing? Probably. Did I masturbate in the kitchen? I can imagine having done that. Probably not that, camera or not. (The window over the sink is low enough so when people went by there in the pink house, in real life, chasing a cow or something that got on the wrong side of the barbed wire fence, they could look right in.)

Next dream. There’s a busy school of long, modern one-floor buildings on a dead hard flat place. I have some big sheets of old wood-veneer paneling for a project. The sheets are delaminating and splitting as I carry them. It starts to rain; I have to find a place to put the paneling on a porch or inside, out of the wet, to glue it and press it under chairs or something heavy and leave it to dry flat. There isn’t anyplace where it won’t be messed with. Dang.

A vague adventure happens, with chase scenes and bad government officials and their brainwashed army men. I end up upstairs in another school-like place. I peek out through the slats on a window. There’s a pet goose down in the dirt in the yard. A bad cop/school-principle/corrupt-official person is coming up the stairs, looking for me. I go around a corner inside the room, hold still, hidden from the door and the window. The man comes in, goes to the window, goes back to the door, but stays in the room. Does he know I’m here? I hold still, breathe shallowly, concentrate on not making the floor creak. It’ll creak if I crouch to be ready to fight. It’ll creak if I peek around the corner. Is the man still there? Did he go out and I didn’t hear? I hope they don’t kill the pet goose.

Next dream. There’s a beautiful clear blue Maxfield-Parrish-painting-like place where the mouth of a river is between bare rock mountains. I’m down by the water. There’s someone uphill behind me; I’m not alone.

A monster slow-motion wave like a thousand feet high comes, spills over the edges of the rocks at the top-side of the mountain across the way (somehow without reaching this side of the river at the same time). The pre-wave starts to come in under me. I waft upward, staying just above it. The layer of chaotic foam is rising faster than the wave. It will get me.

I’m as high as the mountains now, the foam and water comes up around me. I sort of sail inland, up the river, at the crest of the churn and the foam. I wasn’t worried up to now, but I’ll be killed when this all falls… or maybe not, I don’t know… this is it…

Now I’m in a strange forest community far up the river, like where Vince and Victoria lived on the Navarro. I guess these people found me and brought me here. This isn’t the right world; nobody can understand me. In a cabin/commune-office there are indications of real civilization somewhere on this world: there’s a pencil on the desk, and there’s a single blank post-it note. I flatten the paper and try to write /Come and help me/ (it’s really hard to do, but I do it, though messily), so if they take it to a city, which they must have somewhere, someone might recognize the novelty of an alien written language and send for me.

I can wait. I didn’t get killed. That’s good enough. And if I have to stay here for months, that’s fine; I’ll learn to talk with them, and have exercise working outside.

The objects below.

     “He meets some fragment huge and stops to guess what powerful and unrecorded race once dwelt in that annihilated place.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-08-07) 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki stories never told until recently. San Francisco Mime Troupe: The Good Cop; it’s kind of a Twilight Zone story, because the world is kind of a Twilight Zone story now. The two-bit obits including the San Francisco Chronicle’s memorial to beat poet (r)uth (w)eiss. Andrew Scully’s The Albion Incident. A chapter or three of El Sereno by Jay Frankston. The Lucky Strike, by Kim Stanley Robinson, about an alternate world where one man with a functional imagination (because of being a reader) was on the crew headed off to drop the first atomic bomb on a city full of people, so things went a little differently than they did for us. Announcements, petitions, alarums and excursions, the usual unusual, and it ends with Doug Nunn’s latest Snap Sessions podcast, minus the fifty-minute interview with Bill Stoneham, creature-maker for films, among other talents he has. If you want to hear the whole unabridged Snap Sessions session, or any of them, that’s here.

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

Lovely innocent space.

Hotel Fontenelle.

The future.

Quantum locking.

Foolish lizard!

The supersonic vapor shockwave.

“It left a great gaping hole in the water.”

And the entire place. This is like alien invasion fought off by Marvel superhero team level damage.

Speaking of which, in the UAE:

And Siberia:

Meanwhile, Barcelona. (via NagOnTheLake)

An abandoned mining town in the Andes that looks like an interesting place to live. It would make a nice little college.

Distribution of space debris, video broken into sections showing different sizes of deadly junk. This is why we can’t have nice things.

“Almost every night now I was sneaking off to the moon.” (via NagOnTheLake)

The music really makes this. You can feel how hard they were trying. It’s not just silly and pathetic. They tried so hard. I especially like the one at about 6:12, where he brushes a wing on the ground, drags the other wing on the ground, and /continues/, gets up in the goddamn air! and of course crashes– but then, /tadahhh!/ The triumphant gesture, he’s fine! He’s not killed. He flew in the air. It really worked for a second. Worth it all. Back to the drawing board. Next time, you’ll see. Next time.

Mask debation. (via Everlasting Blort)

What it looks like from not here. Except it looks like that from here, too. The poor people, she says, and starts to cry.

The blood of Snow White. And a mummy. I don’t think they’re getting blood from the burlap mummy. I don’t know what the mummy’s doing there. Maybe he has a sore throat.×800/media/img/photo/2020/07/photos-week-4/a28_1258284465/original.jpg

“The only rational frying and shortening medium.” Really? I remember being little and asking my mother or grandmother, “What is short’nin’,” They said, “It’s this,” and showed me. Shortening is white fat. It’s like melted soap. “Why is it /shortening/?” And they’re like, “It’s this. Taste it.” /But why is it shortening?/ That was years before I read Pogo, Stepmother Goose, the part about Simple Simon and the Pie Man (“Let me taste your ware.” “I’m where? I’m here.” “No. Your ware. Your ware. Let me taste it!” /SPLORTCH/. And it was even longer before I heard /Who’s On First/. And only just now, this late in my life, it occurred to me to find out, so look, from HuffPost: “Shortening got its name because of what it does to flour. Introducing fat into baked goods interferes with the formation of the gluten matrix in the dough. As a result of its interference, gluten strands end up shorter which in turn creates a softer, more crumbly baked good. It’s the reason that cakes and pastries are soft and breads not so much.” Oh, sure, 200 years ago they knew about the gluten matrix? No. Continue: “Shortening got its name way before anyone knew anything about the chemical reaction of fat and gluten, and that’s because the word short used to mean tender in reference to food.” Ah. Thanks. Three little children lyin’ in bed, two were sick and the other one dead. Call for the doctor, doctor said, Feed those children short’nin’ bread…

The Beach Boys sing Short’nin’ Bread. Apparently Brian Wilson was obsessed with this and he arranged hundreds of different versions. They had to distract him with other things to get him away from it. He’d go back to it, they’d have a meeting about what to do, sure, why not, record it, maybe that’ll get it out of his system, like in The Wedding Singer when Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore are each engaged to someone else but are uncomfortably attracted to each other, connected by an invisible rubber band; of course they belong together, but their families and fiances will be hurt and confused, and Drew Barrymore says, “Maybe we should kiss just once, you know, get it out of our system.” And the other person in the room, Drew Barrymore’s girlfriend, looks away and sighs. That was a golden moment in cinema for me. I could hear in my head all the other people who ever watched that movie getting to that point, and going, “Oh, no,” because that’s not how people work, and at the same time, “Oh, good. Finally,” because that’s how people work. That moment was the kernel of the screenwriter’s dream. The whole story before and after that is just a scaffold for that moment. You need everything else, but then you don’t. It stays up there by itself after that.

Frozen flowers.

Remarkable film footage shot in 1888.


Dramatic cats.

Drawing out the thought processes of Trump people. This is a few weeks old, but it stands the test of time. (via b3ta)

“The brother’s imagination was vast, clever and fecund.”


Serious leather.

Though technically all leather is serious. It’s the whole skin peeled off of these things. Of course they’re supposed to kill them or otherwise use them up first, and most of the time they do, and that’s horrible enough to contemplate. But I have meatballs in spaghetti at least three times a week, so I’m not blameless in this. Meatballs come from meat. And if I ever win the lottery I’m going to have a big fat juicy steak any time I want to, and drive the car I’ve fantasized about for years: a dark green convertible MGB with tan-brown seats, jacked up just a little bit to make room for slightly oversized wheels and tires, very light-looking, almost as if you could pick it up with one hand and go /vroom! vrroooom!/ And there’ll be room in the normal size house for all of Juanita’s craft projects, but when a room fills up, I’ll just build another room on, with my own hands, out of decent materials that just show up because I called Rossi’s on the phone. And I’ll have my own high power radio station that you can hear from a hundred miles away, a thousand miles away at night, with a real Eiffel Tower shaped radio tower and a blindingly bright blinking red light on top, shining in soft-focus through fog, and I’ll get Bob Woelfel and pay him whatever he wants, to run the place the way he ran KMFB, where the lady from the animal rescue would come over and find him in the side yard, tanning in his boxers on a deck chair, reading the newspapers, and she’d say, “We got a new dragon,” and he’d get up, pull his pants and shirt and zoris on, and say, “Let’s go talk about it on the radio.” Also I’d have a hot pastrami sandwich sometimes. Or a BLT. Serve those things in the cafe next to the studio-audience theater in the radio station… Right, sorry, cute cows:

They made this to Circus Contraption music.

“Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head.” (via Everlasting Blort)

Movie stars turning their heads.

I’m not kidding here. If you look at this you will be sorry. This is not a trick, it’s not funny at all, especially since this is where we’re all going if we’re /lucky/ to live that long. And we’re only seeing and hearing this because there was a camera there. It’s not bloody but it’s bloody awful.

The heliosphere is not a sphere. It’s a giant alien insect pupa.

I haven’t, no, but maybe I should. I like the outfit. Is there some literature you can leave me, to get me started?


Bambi, behind the scenes. How they did it. (via Everlasting Blort)

“The machines do everything. They beat you and knead you and pummel you and shake you. You just have to be able to take it.” (via Everlasting Blort, then NagOnTheLake

Just five more quarts.

Well, that’s reassuring.

The tree who set healthy boundaries. (click on the image to read the story)

Dimensions. (via Everlasting Blort)

Wouldn’t that be nice.


Not exactly this thing, but something of this sort happens in real life all the time. Think of something that happened just today that you noticed that nobody else did.

They hold their breath for a long time. They have to.

Man walks around like he’s in a video game.

Naked concerto for cello, kazoo and heavy metal devil voice.

Hey. I’m walkin’ here.

“Excuse me.”

No longer accepting detonations.

I knew that Rose Marie (of the Dick Van Dyke show) was the child star Baby Rose Marie in her tot-hood, but I just only found out that she lived until 2017. Here she is from the early days, belting out a tune into some guy’s late-night teevee room.


Xmas in July annual sotto voce extravaganza.

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-07-31) 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

Obligatory disease-capades, a Scott Peterson story about the financial shenanigans of Hospitality House, a very tragic chapter of Jay Frankston’s /El Sereno/, lovely Xmas music, the tale of intrepid but misinformed Alvar Nunez Cabeza da Vaca (his real name), poetry, art, scandal, spectacle, whimsy, disaster, laughter, tears, wonder, science, fruitcake and farce: Xmas in July.

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

Say “Fruit bats are cute bats.” That’s how you remember which ones. Fruit bats are cute bats.

Shapes and colors.

Life after quarantine.

Life before quarantine. It’s like Robert Altman and Werner Herzog had a baby.

La bella machina. The Babbage difference engine, designed in 1847, and finally constructed. It runs like a top. A very slow, eleven ton top full of gears and including a paper printout and a metal-embossing press for long-lasting results. Never goes obsolete. Just keep it greased, and avoid ever hiring a crank-boy who likes to show off. There isn’t a warehouse full of spare parts for a thing like this if you break it; these are all the parts there are.



Finland, Finland.

The most astounding magic trick ever. “Tens of millions of Americans think the person on the left is the violent aggressor.” Note the tattoo on the soldier-creature’s arm. And the ear on its head. Where are they getting these soldiers from? The Torchwood rift? Mordor?

They came from outer space.


Quelle dommage.

A special anime-style Rick and Morty short subject.

Anime-style SpongeBob.

Chicken-beaten tube drums.

Kaiju! (via Everlasting Blort)

You know what we need to do?

Redneck coronavirus mask test.



The future, stylin’ as ever. (View gallery.)

Except this is the future we got. Not that other stylin’ one, so not /as ever/, after all.

E flat.

Puzzle fun!

Poppo cornu.

Poppo picklu.

Spherical geometry.

Waterskiing on stilts. Dental stilts.

Either those are giant borzois or that’s a very small window. (via Everlasting Blort)

It’s all like, /Mine./ Here’s the thing: I mentioned to Juanita this video of an octopus that really wants the man’s camera, and she went looking for it and discovered there are hundreds of videos of octopuses of all different sizes, from hand-size to Barcalounger-size, and they all want a camera. Octopuses want cameras. They don’t want to eat them or take them apart, they just want to hold them and have them. Why, do you suppose?

Drunk history of the brassiere. With Parker Posey who, by the way, plays Doctor Smith in Lost In Space. Ah-hah! Now you need to see that too.

Pre-flight safety video.

Nixon verbatim.

The story of Beverly Hills.

Hotel rug art.

A metal hand.

Round-trip over the Atlantic by British dirigible in 1930. A ripping yarn. A ripped elevator fin, for that matter. Collapsed butt cone, punctured frame girder, assorted storm damage.

…Time to see Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow again.

There’s an alien starship crash plume on Mars.

Loud. Too piercing, man. Too piercing.

“Socialism never took root in America because the poor see themselves not as an exploited proletariat but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.” -Ronald Wright

“Ow! I’ve been hit right in my feelings!”

“A wonderful rich woman who lives in the capital. With superhuman strength. Under her mask and Batwoman name she turn into an amazing wrestler.”

I have always felt uncomfortable looking at things like this. Even the Solid Potato Salad video with the happy pretty young women bending all the wrong ways. It makes me cringe. But maybe you like it, so. As long as they don’t go too far it’s not so bad. My step-brother Mark could sit on the floor and pull his ankles up behind his ears and spin around on his butt on the linoleum. That was rather impressive. He could also do endless exercise sit-ups. He could start doing sit-ups and never have to stop until he wanted to. I lost track of Mark, but wherever he is, he might be doing that right now. I also don’t know what happened to Jamie. And Craig is dead; I know what happened to him.

The Solid Potato Salad video. Miss Cellania noticed that contortionist men bend forward, women bend backward. See above. It’s not always true, but very little about people is always true. There’s room for everybody: people who dress like robots or like giant rabbits or like it’s the 1800s or the 1100s or the 3700s, people who compete to recite Shakespeare in Klingon pig-Latin, people who collect odd prototype vacuum cleaners or vacuum tubes or plastic Seattle Space Needles or porcelain Eiffel Tower salt shakers or perfectly ordinary stamps or bottlecaps or firecracker labels, people who scream ethnic slurs through Confederate flag masks pulled down to leave their noses uncovered and shoot you for messing up their Taco Bell order… ehhh, maybe not that. The others, though. People who yammer under their breath all night on the radio. People who like cheese.

“You are wet, sir.”

Come as you are.

“All the couns’lors hate the waiters, and the lake has alligators…” “I went hiking with Joe Spivey, he developed poison ivy…”

How to be correct about everything all the time.

And an eerie Outer-Limits-like solo expedition to an abandoned nuclear missile solid fuel engine test center. “This cabinet does not contain classified material.” “Oh, sure, that’s what you want me to think.” I’ll tell you what /I/ want: I want him to put the paper back in the proper file folder and not just leave it there on top like a vandal or a slob.


The itsy shvitzy spider.

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-07-24) 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

I’d just begun playing the intro music and reciting my intro spiel, and a giant spider minced into view on the wall to my left. I left the music playing, got a plastic cup and a piece of cardboard, caught the spider, took it outside and propelled it over the rail into the topiary, came back to say that the theme of the show was /The itsy shvitsy spider/, which I’d chosen earlier in the afternoon. There, a sign. Though this time could have easily been The Eucalyptus Chronicles. (I didn’t know people have such strong opinions about a particular kind of tree.) The theme will never be President Ass-clown, because anything that would always be should never be. You can’t get away from him. Look this way, there he is. Look that way, there he is again. Like in Flight of the Conchords when Bret is thinking about the bongo-drummer creep who broke up the band. If you could only catch him in a cup and fling him away. The whole world can hardly wait for that. Never flush anything alive down the toilet, though. Do it right. Take it outside into its natural environment, let a cat find it.

Among the regular and irregular features, this show has, half an hour in, the second in the San Francisco Mime Troupe’s summer radio drama series /Tales of the Resistance/. This week’s installment of Jay Frankston’s serialized book El Sereno begins about two hours and ten minutes in, rather than later where you’re used to it being. And the show ends not with the Fulity Closet podcast but with a half-hour recorded reading of Jonathan Nolan’s haunting short story /Memento Mori/, which, if you only want to hear that, is here.

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

Wake up.

Really. Wake up from this horror… But wait a minute. How is this different from the way it was before? It’s exactly the same.

Randy Rainbow’s latest. /Gee, Anthony Fauci./

Cardboard flying saucer.

Some moons. Here’s something interesting: the escape velocity of Mars’ smaller moon, Deimos, is thirteen miles-per-hour.

Looking sharp, there, Mars. Sharp is the next higher, after dapper.

Higher and higher. USA, USA.

We clearly live inside of a glass dome.

…with President Ass-clown.


John McClane shop light.

“Shove it up your floop, mother!” Floop. I did not know that’s the Irish word for that.


She’s so happy. This is so great.

Or these kids. It’s too bad the trumpet and the sax are so far down in the mix. This is 2011; they ought to be kings of the world by now. It’s a little rough in the middle part, they get a bit lost, but that just makes you smile harder. I have this because Juanita misheard something I said from the other room as “Frankenstein with a horn section,” and she found like a dozen of them and sent links to me for review. There actually are plenty of versions of this song done by really fine bands with a horn section, a couple of them are even all-horn bands, but they’re precise, lifeless as a player piano, no wildness, nothing to stir the blood, they’re just playing the notes, where these kids are not just playing nor just performing but being music. This is a shining moment. They help play each other’s instrument to keep the sound going when they /switch instruments/. Note the transfixed groupie girls on the left, seen only from the back– there’s a story there. The honking shitty-sound-system feedback (remedied finally by the bass player reaching over and shutting off the guitarist’s guitar). You can easily imagine future alien archeologists machine-scanning through billions and billions of videos made by the sadly vanished Earth people and stopping on this one. /Oh./ The one who caught it, the one at that machine, calls its fellow researchers to come see. They float around the monitor with their great big eyes and flexible ear holes flapped wide open. They watch it over and over and over. They determine to find some cells somewhere and recreate this lost ancient race and their fascinating world.

Yeah, good choice.

The bass makes it.

“Ideally we walk away from this with ever’body havin’ the same number of holes in their body that they came with.”

They won’t be getting their deposit back. This ship cost four billion dollars to build, which of course doesn’t include how much it costs to take it out and drive it around anywhere, nor any of the cost of hundred-million-dollar flying machines flitting on and off it like flies. And it’ll cost 10 billion dollars to replace it. In other news, President Ass-clown and his allies have already spent a billion dollars just on getting him re-elected. Though the events are not directly related, and the volume knob on the military bathtub-toy continuous bankrupting of America is glued and screwed down tight, all the way up to eleven.

Meanwhile, old Taiwanese people model clothes left behind at their laundromat. (via NagOnTheLake)

Oh, dear.

This is how things should be.

White woman impedes food delivery by Black guy. More funny than tense. Really, there’s no sense of menace. She’s just nuts, and he’s just patient.

Watch a newsperson talk to Donny in 1990 the way newspeople should have been talking to him all his life since, including his whole impossible, ludicrous, disastrous presidency today. And why haven’t they been? And why don’t they?

Cool! A tear-gas tornado!

Great Gig in the Sky for theremin.

Classical pianist arranges accompaniment to neighbor’s cat demanding demands.

The singing valise.

The singing singers.

The golfing tapdancer.

Walking materials. Won’t you come walking, materials, with me.


One leg.

Assault donut. Or doughnut, the way we used to spell it in the old days when they were five, six or eight cents depending on how fancy they were. I just suddenly remembered riding bikes with my stepbrother Craig to a donut place when we lived in Fresno in the middle-late 1960s and, yes, there were cops in there. Craig explained to me that there are always cops in a donut place because they give them free donuts for protection, and I thought Craig was the cleverest person in the world for making up on the spot something so funny and stupid, you know, leaving it up in the air about who was protecting who, or what. Much later, when people really started about how it’s okay for police to be rough with people and shoot them and shoot their dog and so on because police are in /so much danger all the time,/ I found out that they’re really not. Roofers, fishermen, carpenters, forest workers, delivery drivers, late night convenience store (and doughnut shop) clerks, and that’s just part of the list, are all in way more danger to life and limb than policemen, and you hardly ever hear of any of them punching a twelve-year-old girl’s teeth out with her own phone, do you, or blinding a man with a T-club, or, in a group, shooting or strangling someone to death and /then/ looking around furtively and shouting /stop resisting! stop resisting!/ This skateboard kid here is the one in danger, for lese-majesty, for disrespecting them. I have no idea how to fix this.

This is how it starts.

“We’re all a part of daddy’s big mob family.”

MIT is concerned about deepfakes. Watch this film through to the end and take the quiz.

It’s important to note that this isn’t putting lost detail back, it’s /inventing likely detail/. (via NagOnTheLake)

Speaking of which, moon landings get a remaster.

The Last.

Art. (via NagOnTheLake)



Art. (via Everlasting Blort)

“We have a hit! and let’s see what it’s done! Just look at this! It’s just gone down like matchsticks, as if these great timbers were nothing! The walls are now breached and the opposing army will be on its way!” The wonderful show going on inside this man’s head! The big show is always inside.

And there are so many different styles of people’s inside shows. Here’s another kind. (via NagOnTheLake)

Bird sound visualizations. (via NagOnTheLake)



A parallel-world fireman calendar.

Far side of the moon. It’s so flat looking, this way.



And fonts. Illuminati bold. Dipshit condensed.


Gojira, don’t you weep, don’t you moan.

     “Well, one of these nights ’round twev [twelve] o’clock, this old town’s gonna really rock. Didn’t Pharaoh’s army get drownded [sic]? Gojira [Godzilla], don’t you weep.” -Trad.

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-07-17) KNYO and KMEC* 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

*Sorry, but not KMEC tonight, again. Just only on KNYO, the 87-watt Little Lion in Fort Bragg. Available info: KMEC’s website’s been down for three weeks, their web stream is off, their phone line is dead, and the only people who’ve replied to my scattershot texts, phone calls and emails are people who have no idea what’s going on or have an idea and are clamming up about it because they know what side their bread is buttered on. If you know the story, or know somebody who does, let me know so I can blab it and get everyone on the same page through the magic of communication. What I know so far: zip. Except for: the Mendocino Environmental Center’s current with rent to County Supervisor McCowen, but approximately $500 in arrears on payment to Pacific Internet. KMEC fits in a closet in the back of the MEC and costs about as much as a cup of coffee at Schat’s per day to operate, but /somebody in the hierarchy of the Environmental Center has to make sure that piffling amount gets paid./ Who is that person? Speak up; don’t be shy. I just wanta help. I’m not going to hurt you. I will not touch you in any wrong way or at all. If you stutter I will not make fun of you. Once upon a time I myself had a speech impediment. I had a lisp so thick it sounded like tearing sections out of a phone book. I know what it feels like. Even if it’s hard –especially if it’s hard– spill the dang beans.

But that’s not what last night’s show’s about. It’s pretty fancy, as usual. Frightening amounts of both useful and frivolous information. Musical thrills; I mean literal thrills. Half an hour into this there’s Lorrie LePaule’s Mendocino Theater Company radio adaptation of the play /Trifles/ by Susan Glaspell, an early feminist drama from 1909 about small town murder, oblivious official men and a sewing kit with a dead bird in it. There’s this week’s installment of Jay Frankston’s historical, romantic and numinous novel El Sereno about sixty tumultuous years of 20th-century Spain from the point of view of the man with all the keys. John Sakowicz’ poem /Vespers/. David Herstle Jones’ meditation on a lusciously predatory bar prostitute. Jerry Philbrick’s latest festival of gun-totin’ elderly racist right-wing belligerent ignorance. There’s disease, pestilence, innovation in sport, vehicles, taxonomy, creeping fascism, an unusual take on cancel culture, a commemoration of the 75th anniversary of the first of hundreds of times the U.S. deliberately punched itself in the nose (in the desert, actually) with a sloppy atom bomb, and the advent of a new weekly feature of MOTA that will be variously titled: Looks at Fox, Focus on Fox, What the Fox, Fox in Sox, etc. I’m trying to keep the kvetching about President Ass-clown to a minimum, but when it starts taking more effort to avoid looking there than to look there, I look there for a minute or two again, and so what. Also there’s a long bit exploring Charlie Engel’s trials and tribulations regarding Sherwood Oaks that really is very fair, I think, to all sides in the tragedy that we’re all heading for if we live long enough. And that’s just some of it. I’m knocking myself out for you, here, every time, everything on the table, as disgraced genius Louis C.K. and the sainted Alex Bosworth, from whom I seem to be estranged, each once said, and if you like it and can use it, great. If something pisses you off so you write to complain or to show off how you can do better, that’s even more perfect. I repeat, spill the beans.

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

Let’s start off with cute little tilt-shift Armenia.

A two-dimentional wunderkammer of wunderkammers.

James Randi, R.I.P. Here he is in 2013 on the subject of faith-healing quacks. (1 hour)

From zero to ten million cases, with appropriate musical accompaniment.

Looping zen monk beatboxer.

They’re so cute together. She loves him so much she wants to punch him in the belly. There’s a psychological word for that– the desire to stop the source of too much feeling, even good feeling; it’s just too much to bear, so. What’s the word? Ah, here: it’s called /cute aggression/. There was an article in Vice a few years ago about that.

This unrestored 109-year-old motorcycle is all original equipment and showroom perfect, somehow frozen in time. The gallery shows different angles and closeups, and some other grand old bikes, including a majestic Flying Merkel, which has the best name of all. I don’t know why I like these things so much, but I do. I don’t /quite/ want to punch and squeeze them, but they are awfully nice.

Rerun: Christian rap. The mythical Jesus Christ is this rap-preaching old couple’s nigga, whatever that means. A clue: He’s the son of the original G.

That word that only one of can call another. The one rearranged of two gees, an n, an i and e-r.

Rerun: History of Earth, with the clock counting down in millions of years to the present day. Things really start to change when the second kind of life appears and starts poisoning the first kind of life with all that oxygen about 2 billion years into the project, and the planet’s day has lengthened to 12 hours, and the surface has cooled from an initial 4000C (7200F) to about 15C, just before the planet becomes a snowball at -25C for 300 million years (4:20 or so into the video.) And then a brief stutter of a few more snowball episodes before that settles down. Surprising: The present day continents were unrecognizable as recent as sixty million years ago, just a blink in the cosmic eye. And all of humanity’s triumphs and disasters and achievements and religions (including thousands of origin stories, many of them involving giant animals in space– turtles and bears and a goose and so on) and wars and poetry and little jealousies and power struggles over who gets control of the holy heirloom tableware or the magic rock, or which day of the week to bang your forehead on the floor and abstain from this or that category of food… All of that –the entire human thing– flashed unnoticed in the last tiny fraction of a second of the video, and in the next fraction of a second there’s the human-caused sixth mass extinction, which we’re past the point of no return into, right now.

Mars. Click it to make it big, then click it again.

Space: 1899. (via b3ta)

“Damage has been set at half-a-million dollars.” That’s all? Money was different in those days. People didn’t sue you because they were painting their fingernails and tripped on the doorjamb. If a train crashed, a train crashed. Trains crash. Also, you could buy a whole block of houses in San Francisco for what it costs to get your Prius fender fixed today, and screwdrivers and toothbrushes and shotglasses (and car headlights) didn’t have supercomputers in them. They just screwed things in or out and cleaned graham crackers out of your teeth and briefly held flammable toxic liquid and showed the road ahead. And when you graduated from high school you knew calculus or at least trigonometry, Spanish, German and/or French, the major dates and locales of history, animal husbandry (you could spay your own cat and assist in the birth of a calf). You could paint a portrait of someone and they’d be pleased with how it came out. Everyone could plumb and wire and roof and cook and sew and type and survey and make change at a register and do any job that needed doing in a new town. They could make tenses agree in casual speech and knew where to put the apostrophe in a sign, knew how to dance gracefully, who to hold the door for, to take a slap and like it and learn from it and not get fresh with that one again. You knew the names of at least a hundred colors and a hundred nuanced emotions. You could play the piano and recite from memory at least one epic poem and possibly even a whole Shakespeare play. It was rare if a person couldn’t sing or tell a joke. Also, every spigot everywhere could be fixed in a minute with a washer that was so cheap they gave them away from a bowl next to the free rulers and paint stirring sticks and free golf pencils, and if you were white you could enter any diner, sit at the counter, spread out the newspaper (morning edition or evening edition of any of a dozen different newspapers just for your city), relight your pocket-cigar and settle in for a lunch hour that lasted an hour. And the coffee was terrible everywhere, so bad that it’s a wonder people drank it at all. So it wasn’t just money that was different.

The list. So far. Sigh.

Drums. (David Gurney sent the link to this.)

Sweetheart pistol grips. (via NagOnTheLake) (I’d put a 1950s cartoon rocket on it. Or a Mars-Attacks-style alien laughing cruelly: /Ack-ack-ack!/) (“We come in peace, we come in peace. Don’t run away! We are friends! Ack-ack-ack!”) (/Pew-pew-pew-pew-pew!/)

Covid risk chart. Though left out is attending an unprotected sex orgy in a septic tank. That would be in the point of a corner.

A cartoonlike glimpse of the real future our timeline sadly diverged from. This reminds me of the science-fiction story, /The Gernsback Continuum/. Just a brief peek into another reality. The reporter in the science-fiction story was unnerved by his experience, though, and became a recluse. He would be delighted with this and learn to play the guitar and ride a skateboard. It’s inspirational, like young Frank’s flying rocket-pack in /Tomorrowland/.

A new kind of robotic prosthetic leg for people who get their meat ones blown off in some pointless war somewhere to benefit weapons manufacturers and to control resources for giant corporations whose rulers might as well live on another planet, they’re so removed from common human experience. The leg is both quiet and powerful, and can walk all day on a single charge. If you have two of them, I think you can go to sleep and they’ll wake you when you reach the beach.

The closer you look, the busier it gets. Look intently enough and you can see Kenneth Patchen’s butterflies bigger than the Earth, not to mention leopards made of golden wire not merely circling the sun but right down there wading around in it up to their eyeballs.


“It’s not a miracle. It’s democracy.”

Old-school lungs filling with air. Yours are doing exactly this right now. And again. Again. Don’t stop.

Yahgh! Ai-eee! Wah!

Balloons in space.

What is intelligence? That’s a good question.

And what does /the/ mean. Define the word /the/. You see that the dictionary can’t even do it but instead it tells you how to use it, and even that’s confusing. /The/ is /the/ weirdest word.

Up there in the French future.

…That reminds me of the animated film /Avril et le Monde Truqué/. April and the Deceptive [Extraordinary] World.

And this. Rerun: Invention of Love.

Birds. Click to view the gallery of 10 images.

Murder mittens. Press the beans, the weapons appear.

Television characters only know one story. (via b3ta)

I think we all learned a valuable lesson today.

Beatnik wedding. (via NagOnTheLake)

Quickly, Nobu!

A clever workaround.

What people most want to know about. It’s never Jesus or quantum mechanics, nor Del Shannon’s /Runaway/.

What you’re up against. (via b3ta)

Imagine if we were shaped like this, what masks would look like. The creature is fine; that kind just naturally looks upset. It’s smiling, smiling about being snatched up into the air and given a hug by the goddess who provides.


How to make a cute teddy bear out of a little towel, a ribbon and three rubber bands. Juanita saw this, squealed /I’m doing that!/ ran for a towel and did it, and you can too. This will be valuable knowledge in the soon-to-come post apocalyptic wasteland, when you have to coax a terrified surviving child out of a hole in a tree. Any woman in your wandering band who you had your eye on, but who has been on the fence about you, will see you do this, and you’re in. This makes up for when you had to shoot that dog.

Wiggly. She doesn’t seem happy at all to me. This is uncomfortable to watch. For you too?

I love this up to but not including the child screeching at the end like fingernails on a blackboard. At the Albion Whale School in the 1980s someone had donated lots of perfect expensive hardwood graduated-by-centimeter blocks, and I used to make immensely tall, spindly towers out of them in the high-ceilinged main room, that I had to use a ladder to complete. I used the radial arm saw at my employers’ place to make a crate of blocks out of leftover pine shelving, and those were fun too. This man’s project is not tall but it’s impressive.

Awww. Oh. Tch.

The existential threat.

“Swedish health officials believed a few basic measures, including limiting gatherings to a maximum of 50 people, would control the spread of infections, along with Swedish common sense.” Yeah, about that.

Cities in space will use this technology.

The theme of Knight Rider for eight cellos.

You can speed this up to 1.5x speed and it’s just as good, but maybe that’s just what I /want/ you to think.

“The head of the Association of Independent Mortgage Experts sent a mortgage company executive expletive-filled video messages falsely alleging the man’s wife performed sexual acts on United Wholesale Mortgage President & CEO Mat Ishbia while in college.” Why, though.

The new roller.

Change return.

And, to close, opening credits. (via b3ta)

Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

     “So a couple weeks later he calls because he played it for the Queen Mother and she kinda got a kick out of it. And I said to Mel, the biggest shiksa in the world loves our record, we’re in!” -Carl Reiner

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-07-10) KNYO and KMEC* 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

*Except not KMEC this time, again. Further info on the KMEC saga is late in arriving. I’ll blab as soon as I get something concrete on the disappointing state of affairs that I struggle mightily to restrain myself from speculating paranoidly upon. As of press time, their website’s been down for two weeks, their web stream is off, their facebook page appears static and their phone line is dead.

Meanwhile, half an hour into this particular show is the San Francisco Mime Troupe‘s first installment of their new project /Tales From The Resistance/, and it’s pretty good. One line of many that stuck in my mind: “The man’s fingers tangled like a ball of indecisive sausages,” and that’s not only because I cut an entire hot Italian sausage into sauce for the spaghetti dinner, or rather breakfast, I cooked while the extra-long Futility Closet podcast, the Galapagos Affair, played to close the show. In between those, a remarkable dreamlike poem about ghostly throat-singing monks of Mount Shasta, by John Sakowicz, Scott Peterson’s questioning the questionable morals and funding of Project Sanctuary, the first two chapters of Jay Frankston’s book /El Sereno/, which I’ll be serializing until October at this rate, selected material from the invaluable Anderson Valley Advertiser, the usual array of edutaining tragi-comic events of our strange times, a fascinating explanation of a promising new theory of the origins of consciousness, and much more. A bottomless fractal landscape of rabbit holes in rabbit holes in rabbit holes. Oh, and Ennio Morricone died, so also there’s his music, for inspirational breaks.

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

Bright loud fireworks label art. (via Everlasting Blort)

New York fireworks from the train.

A still collage of all of L.A.’s fireworks last Friday night at once, seen from the hills.

L.A. fireworks with appropriate Blade Runner music. (via b3ta)

A seemingly endless page of Joel Remy art gifs that sensibly wait to load until you get to them. (via Everlasting Blort)

Simpson’s paradox explains why you choose the graphs and articles that you insist the idiots who don’t believe what you believe only need to see to suddenly agree with you. And you’ll misinterpret this too as showing you are right, because that’s how people are.


If you’ve always wanted to watch a bunch of big fat men strangle a little black boy to death in the facility where they put him when his mother died of cancer, while maybe a dozen other orphan children continue to eat their lunch and watch his murder along with you, now’s your chance… What did this unacceptable outcome escalate from, you ask?  It’s like this: from so much unfairness of things (dead mother, etc., see above), the boy threw a sandwich at another boy, missed, and then was insufficiently remorseful nor respectful when his keepers told him to clean that up right now, ya ungrateful little piece o’ shit, which is probably not exactly how they put it, but place yourself in the action from the boy’s point of view. Would you meekly clean it up? Or would you tell them all to go fuck themselves.

Check out my vast and trunkless legs.

Walk to the store?

Crouching in the air. (via Everlasting Blort)

(Ennio Morricone is dead at 91.) The Danish National Symphony Orchestra perform Ennio Morricone’s theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Watch for when the camera goes in close on the very well-used and loved old Fender Stratocaster. Except for frets nine through twelve, which the musician avoids like the floor in the floor-is-lava* game, the fretboard is worn down from the pressure of years of fingers. Everywhere else but there. I’d like to hear the story about that.

The same piece performed by the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain.

Texans on the moon.

“Oh, my God. Jesus. Holy crap! This is not the way to come.”

“Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooohh! Oooh! Wahh!

How to see the currently-visible-to-the-naked-eye comet.

Sava? Tres jolie bien, merci. (via Everlasting Blort)


Imbruglians. (Rerun.)

Elegant, efficient Asian clothing and accouterment modeling. It’s a kind of understated robot dance.

Everyone’s a critic.

Disco 84. (via b3ta)

Baldwin Lee – photographs of Black Americans in the South. (via NagOnTheLake)

Danderine grew Miss Wallace’s hair. And we can PROVE IT. “After using Danderine, my hair grew so fast it fairly /crawled out of my head/.” I guess they made their real money when people discovered the effect couldn’t be turned off, and they were willing to pay anything to stop it. It’s like the Blue Fairy Book story of Why the Sea is Salt.

Tokyo in 1913.

Defunctland. (via NagOnTheLake)

The boss bagpipes.

Randy Rainbow’s latest: Poor Deplorable Troll.

What bowed strings actually look like in very slow motion. They really travel. They stretch so much.

What is it? And how did they get it in there? The hole smashed in the roof is smaller than the giant thing is, so it didn’t get in that way. And what is the crap he’s raking out of it? If it’s dried squid string-meat, then okay. Except it doesn’t look clean.

Further no. This makes me think of some of Diane Arbus’ work, specifically her photographs of mentally retarded people gleefully turning somersaults in the grass, not that there’s anything wrong with that, or them, where there’s for sure something wrong with these willfully ignorant yahoos and this:

Or rather the Life Magazine photo from the 1960s of a whole Ohio town, including children, enjoying destroying poor little foxes with baseball bats. I remember it clearly but I can’t find it. I found this, though. They’re still doing it, but on a much larger scale. Horrible. And it’s Maryland, not Ohio.

The National Joy Council reminds you that joy doesn’t last. You get a taste of it and you spend the whole rest of your life trying to get it back. It’s a gateway drug. It leads to harder stuff. I know what I’m doing. I can take it or leave it alone any time. Yeah? Tell us who gave it to you, kid. Do yourself a favor. Be smart.

*Speaking of lava, a volcano story with lots of encouraging images of a little volcano’s progress. From a humble rural farm upbringing it made something of itself and became a volcano outstanding in its field, but not without breaking a few eggs.

I am Beef Stroganoff.

     “The world seems a little less funny without you in it.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-07-03) KNYO and KMEC* 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

*Some distressing news, besides that Carl Reiner died: Friday morning I got via text from the on-hand engineer that Mendocino Environment Center’s (KMEC’s) internet service has been interrupted with no firm reconnect date. As this internet thingy is how my show and many others’ shows get to KMEC live, this particular show was not heard on the air in Ukiah but only in Fort Bragg. (If you’re solvent enough to pay the MEC’s back internet bill, please do; you’ll be a real hero, and not the kind of hero that gets other people killed, like in the 2005 film Serenity, but the Carl Reiner kind of hero.) (We still have Mel Brooks, until they cancel him for being a Holocaust-denying Nazi racist for writing /Springtime for Hitler/, like vandals just painted RACIST FISH on the Copenhagen statue of the Little Mermaid, commissioned in the year 1907 and unveiled in 1913.)

And some thrilling news: I’ve been in contact with the San Francisco Mime Troupe, whose new project is a series of 25-minute edutaining radio shows titled /Tales From The Resistance/, and starting next week I’ll be airing one every week, as well as other material from the magical Mime Troupe. Mimes on the radio! That’s what I’m /talking/ about.

And here are links to worthwhile educational items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right:

Riot police, all of them armed to fight a war (!) march into a public park to break up the properly-masked-and-socially-distanced peaceful violin vigil for the very kid the police murdered. The camera woman says sadly, Oh, no… No, no… over and over, which you’ll discover you are already saying, yourself. Or maybe you’re not, because you’re worn out from saying Oh, no to our suckworthy present world. Sociologists call this /Oh, no/ fatigue.

Finger ninjas, part 4. Collect the whole set. (via NagOnTheLake)

A safety message from your local Fireworks Control Board, scourge of styrofoam hat-heads everywhere.

A whole Indonesian scooter-modifying community to learn about and wish to join or actually create your own local chapter of, right in your own town. (via NagOnTheLake)

A girl, and a fan, and a fellow. A bit shaky on the slow-motion splits, nothing at all like the dance mastery of the superhuman Nicholas Brothers, but luminous into somewhat numinous.

A lot of times you see somebody in a vehicle up in the air and you think, /That’s not flying. Call that flying? ‘Cause I don’t,/ like the old woman said to the filmy, fishy, smelly, seductive invading aliens wafting creepily up away from the cats in Carol Emshwiller‘s /Almost the End of the World/. A helicopter, for example, is just constantly frantically needily clawing at the air to keep from falling end-over-end out of the sky. But this guy is flying. No noisy motor. No seatbelt, even. He nonchalantly takes his street shoes off and puts his teevee slippers on. Dangerous? Sure, though, notice: from takeoff to landing he is in a parachute, in a box of pillows. /Leonardo da Vinci/ could see this all those hundreds of years ago and cogitate for an afternoon and make this out of stuff just lying around in Italy of those days and fly in it, or rather send a small village boy up in it first, just in case, and within a decade or two wars would have begun to be fought in the sky, and we wouldn’t have had to wait so long for progress upward. We’d have cities in outer space by now, circling the sun like Kenneth Patchen’s leopards made of golden wire. This project is the very definition of inspiring. He is a leaf on the wind. Watch how he soars.

A virtual tour, in a dozen (so far) short videos, of the Studio Ghibli museum. Hayao Miazaki was always all about flight.

A short film about stoneworker Etsuro Sotoo’s involvement in the construction of Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia in Spain. (via NagOnTheLake)

Bauhaus ballet. (30 min.) (via b3ta)

How they did it in the old days.

Speaking of which: Two-Ton Tony Galento’s training tricks.

But can you songify President Ass-Clown? Challenge accepted.

A happy trick involving bicycles.

Scottish Power To The Key Workers posters.

There’s some swearing in this. Even if that bugs you, it’s worth it. In places where they have flamingos, they know what this guy is singing about, if you call that singing. Out of their natural environment flamingos are crazy boasting bastards. And they’re not pink because they’re pink. They’re pink because of special bacteria in what they eat.

“Think about it: a mask is just a bumper sticker for your face. Conservatives, now your mouth can own the libs without even openin’ itself.” He has a little trouble keeping a straight face at the end. The truth is all just happily bubbling up out of him like a fountain.

I like it that the artist gave Hegel a little potbelly. It lends gravitas to the philosophical bushwah, as both are historically accurate. That’s those particular philosophers there, all over.

SNL health product commercials.

The future. Click on Closed Captions (CC). Click on the gear (settings). Click Auto-Translate. Choose English. This is 2020 forseen in 1947, when my mother was 18 years old and typing 130 words a minute on a manual Royal in the office of Youngstown Sheet and Tube. It had not quite yet entered her mind to run away to California. It would be ten years before she’d meet my bio-father, a young architecture student with a smart mouth. Radios all had big hot vacuum tubes in them in 1947. And they envisioned /this/:

Rerun: The apprehension engine.

This amazing performer blows the longest trill in trumpet history. He never runs out of air because he uses his cheeks for an air reservoir, like the bladder of bagpipes. He’s not faking it when he staggers and almost passes out. You can die from trying this. Horn players have dislocated jaws and even had a stroke from this. There’s a fine line between ecstatically hyperventilating and popping your brain like a balloon.

If I had unlimited money for a house full of big blank walls and at least one /very/ bright, high-rez video projector, there would be something like this on a continuous loop, for art, with the music off, of course, or better music, like Yes or ELP or AWB or Brian Eno or that Irish /Emu/ woman singing in an ocean of reverb. It would be to your left on your way to the (normal-size) bathroom, not even in a prominent place, that’s how rich I would be. It’s an hour of sharp busy video of our sun, the heating system, where each day takes one second. (via NagOnTheLake)

The above image, zoomed all the way in, to see the Sun Duck that the old Lithuanian witch down by the tracks was always telling you about.

Rerun: Literal version of Total Eclipse video. In media years, this is ancient. Media years burn faster than dog years anymore.

This one in the series is particularly useful.


Among the fishes he rests in pieces.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, for fuck sake.

Maybe they just did not-see that.

Why are you alive?

Your stabber stabs. Your slicer slices.*

Your tooter toots.

Your fractal image generator generates fractal images.

If you’re in a boat and there’s a bear swimming in circles with his head stuck in a jar, you do what you gotta do. /Benny, come around again. I almost got it./ Teamwork.

The Mahammad [sic] Ali of all sardine packers.

Oscar Mayer’s great new Sack O’ Sauce in a Can O’ Meat.


The true colors of ancient insects turn out to be teal and orange, the color scheme of a thousand modern science-fiction films, as though the filmmakers were clued in to this ancient secret by an interdimensional alien time traveler playing a prank on his power-mad brother that risks the destruction of the universe but what can you do? They don’t hate each other, exactly, they’re just rivals in a contest that has gone on since before the beginning. We are less than ants to them… Or it might be, as a writer for put it, “To be fair, it’s not necessarily laziness per se. Your average colorist has to grade about two hours of movie, frame by frame, in the space of a couple of weeks. It doesn’t take that many glances at the deadline bearing down on the calendar before you throw up your hands and say, “Fuck it. Everybody likes teal and orange!” Take the next mental step: Why does everyone like teal and orange? Perhaps because that’s the color everything used to be at the dawn of oxygen-based life? Hm? After a hundred million years of anaerobic vomity slime-brown, anything would have been a drink of cool clean water, so teal and orange it is. (via NagOnTheLake)

It’s always an appropriate time to recommend reading Roger Zelazny. I’d start with /Lord of Light/, but I just mentioned bugs preserved in amber a moment ago, so.

“Through my own extensive internet research, I’ve learned that all I need to be safe is this tea made from mulewort.”

Night parade of 100 demons.

Speaking of President Ass-clown, President Ass-clown more and more reminds me of the robot in the Oz books but minus its good qualities (bravery, loyalty to Dorothy). Here, from Wikipedia: “Tik-Tok is a round-bodied mechanical man made of copper, that runs on clockwork springs which periodically need to be wound, like a wind-up toy or mechanical clock. He has separate windings for thought, action, and speech… When his works run down, he becomes frozen or mute or continues to speak but utters gibberish… As Baum repeatedly mentions, Tik-Tok is not alive and feels no emotions. He therefore can no more love or be loved than a sewing machine.”

A dance to the nations of the world song to show which countries Britain has militarily invaded mostly in service of a handful of truly Dickensian rapacious conscience-free trading company magnates. They avoided Ecuador for some reason. Why, do you suppose? What, or who, were they afraid to rape and shoot and plunder and bring civilization to there?

Out of this world, by Jam Handy. “Heaven and Hell battle for the soul of a bread salesman.” (20 min.)

Trailer for the new Ghostbusters movie.

“It’s fascinating to see just what the algorithms do with this sort of information, and if I’m polluting their dataset with car pictures instead of faces, then, well, that’s my little way of fighting the Rise of the Machines.”

Helicopter Canada 1966. (60 min.) (via NagOnTheLake) This is okay. I’m sorry for what I said about the helicopters, before.

Should this cop have a gun? He doesn’t seem to need one, and clearly he can’t control his temper and shouldn’t be a cop until some sort of correction is applied that works better than the last time and the time before that.

Happy Coltrane sing-along. I hope a passenger is the one holding the camera, and it’s not the driver, though the driver gets Father of the Year for fathering.

*And a little more about tableware. A tableware toccata.

Tortoise is safely home, sleeping with the bees.

     “Look, whoever planned this stunt was smoking a lot of jazz cabbage, I can tell ya that much.” -Ze Frank

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-06-26) KNYO and KMEC 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 awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

And here are links to worthwhile educational because sensational, sad, sick, triumphant, despairing, and/or merely gratuitously prurient items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right:

Poor cherries. (via Everlasting Blort)


And ballet/contact-juggling a weighty broadsword. I know a guy who has a sword just like that, for historical costume drama fun. It’s not too heavy to pick up with one hand, but you can’t swing it like a sword with only one hand at the base of the grip, and two or three emphatic swings with both hands and your arms are tired and your lower back has made that /tchh/ sound that means it’s going to hurt for a week. When you see people fighting with these things in movies, and they hit each other and fall down and get up and just keep fighting for half an hour? That’s some bullshit. But the broadsword fight at the end of the Sean Connery film /Robin and Marian/ is entirely realistic. Two swings each, a single flat glancing blow on armor that staggers both combatants, swinger and swingee, and both sit down in the mud to catch their breath and discuss the wisdom of this course of action. All of that, and this waifish little superpowered tutu guy /dances/ with it and makes it look like it’s floating in the air. (Sorry this is a Facebook link. I can’t find it elsewhere.)

Hobbyist remote-pilots /500 mph/ toy jet back and forth and up and down. But how, without real-time telemetry and a VR visor? You count to three and it’s completely out of sight. It’s very exciting. FWOOOOSH!

One-minute 3D modeling tutorials. “Look at you, you’re the Pipe Lord, makin’ all these pipes. Pipes here, pipes there, pipes and more pipes. What’s even in those pipes? /You/ don’t know.”

Rerun: Circle world.

Police union boss barks about what unfair meanies people are who call cops thugs and disrespect them. Intercut with video inconvenient for his point. (Click the sound on.)

So far.

Who’s /really/ looting America? The same big unaccountable crooks who’ve been looting it all along, that’s who.

Tokyo at night with one or two people in the whole place. If Godzilla were to attack the city now it would look totally unrealistic; it would be like a man in a Godzilla costume knocking over little model buildings.

Stylish future plague-wear.

Blythe intaglios.

You know what’s weird? I see a thing like this, a trailer for a disaster movie and, after everything that’s going on in the real world, it’s /comforting/. It’s nice to imagine a world where we only have to worry about /one thing/ and that thing is not at all our own stupid fault but just something falling eternally around the sun according to the curvature of spacetime, and then suddenly there’s a planet with a bunch of tiny people on it, shooting at each other over whether to pray by bonking their heads on the ground or by mailing money to a teevee station. And then they look up, and WHAM.

Rise and fall of the Blockbuster empire. The animation is like watching popcorn pop, fill the pan, and then it all unpops again back to the way it was before. (via NagOnTheLake)

They’re spending a lot of money making a teevee series out of Isaac Asimov’s /Foundation/ books. I’m really looking forward to this.

How we get t-shirts and q-tips.

How we get silk underwear. (via NagOnTheLake)

It looks like a cartoon 1920s traveling salesman costume. Or a French music-hall variety show impresario. Or a weapon designed to attract a child and explode when taken to show to the gang. Or a kind of fancy candy, though it probably tastes like dust on a metal screen door, like the moth I ate when I was four. Moths are likely all very similar in flavor, though you might get an argument on that from a connoisseur of moths, such as a cat. One time a nearly microscopic gnat flew at my face and then shot all the way up my nose, and I was overwhelmed by a sharp smell all around me of /wet dirt/. It must have landed just right on a sensor cell. I know I’ve told you about that before. Anyway, circus moth:×932/smart/

How they write Rick and Morty.

The sound of science. Fan music and art about a game that’s almost /ten years old/. (via b3ta)

Music for prepared ukulele.

Seb Skelly’s latest, on ten horns. Yup, /Ten Horn Seb Skelly/, that’s whut all us gazebo-men called him, back in the Big War. “We will fight in the gazebos, we will fight in the pavilions and bandshells…” Stop, you. /What’s the first rule of Gazebo Club./

…Same thing but with piano added by cruise ship lounge entertainer (pre-COVID) Max Forseter.

They shortened their band name to The Chicks. Dixie had connotations.

The risks for the next little while. Space alien invasion is not even in a sub-menu.


Rerun: The Cerne Abbas Giant’s giant knob. “The biggest example of a noble British tradition that’s echoed down the ages.”

Ze Frank on snow monkeys. “Marriage? But Papa would never allow it… Elope? What about the zombies?”

USA, USA. (via NagOnTheLake)

Why America’s police look like soldiers.

There’s a thing I read the old Jews used to say, to not despair because “the whole /world/ isn’t crazy.” That’s right. And /she’s/ right. One day, if we grow up enough to not punch ourselves in the nose back into the stone age like a stupid Three Stooges routine on a loop, AOC will be president of the United States.

What was the internet like in the old days?

The even older days, when you could not only win a miserable little monkey in the mail but somebody actually tried to make money out of how kids would all think how great it would be to have a monkey in their hat.

A tale of two Californias in a graph.

The cure.

“Nah, just kidding. Screw that guy.”

An interesting store. Tattooing, needle books, band-aid, assorted random metal knick-knacks, old shoes. You can even get a chili-dog and a short beer.

A nice video essay about slap bass with plenty of examples.

The theorbo. Ken Sorbo is kind of a right wing lunatic, but if he played theorbo… Theorbo, Kevin Sorbo? The automatic accent you use is the same as for /Ee tubutu, Solo?/ Han shot first.

Do, do, do.

A particularly spiritual day’s page of Gunnerkrigg Court.

That’s true: of the two of them, Trump and Biden, Biden may be many things but he is not a whiny bitch.

Watch. I can drink water. Anyway, that’s a long story.

Ramming speed.×1000/media/img/photo/2020/06/photos-week-2/a19_1220307177/original.jpg

Karmical delivery.


How to make a popup book. (via NagOnTheLake)

The John Wilcock comic archive. (via Everlasting Blort)

My work is done here.

How ancient Egyptians really lived and worked. (via Clifford Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

Why is it even happening?

Fauve. About two boys. (In French, but you can turn on the English subtitles or not; it’s obvious what’s going on even with the sound off.)

“The object of my invention is to provide a means by which animals which burrow in the ground can be destroyed, and which trap will give an alarm each time that it goes off, so that it can be reset… This invention may also be used in connection with a door or window, so as to kill any person or thing opening the door or window to which it is attached.”

“Oh, it’s sweet! Yum. This is why the whites are so healthy.” (via Cliff Pickover’s Reality Carnival) I was fine until the point where the man says, “I am going to keep this paper and show it to my children.” I suddenly began crying hard, that full-body crying that gives you a headache. I told Juanita what was going on, and she looked up at me from her work and said, “See.”

That’s love.

100 days, 100 nights.

The marriage of Bette and Boo.

Oh, Nana. (click the sound on)

The Manhattans – Kiss and Say Goodbye.

The ever increasingly thrilling elaborate Miniatur Wunderland, the world in a nutshell.

Memorize the true names of the different fireworks.

War in Cuba? That’s a young man’s game. “Comes with pistols which discharge wooden ammunition for the purpose of knocking over the toy Spaniards and Cubans.” Or you could flick them with your index finger. Or crush their heads, crush, crush.

“I’m crushing your head. Crush, crush.”

Space. (via NagOnTheLake)

Everything is something else.

Science explains illusions.

I like this photograph. An attractive pet-owner passed the time posing for Stanley Kubrick, reading a paperback on a sweaty hot night. Of course the dogs are all long dead of old age. I wonder where the woman is now, what kind of life she had, and if she’s still alive somewhere. I wonder what she sounded like. And what’s the terrier-dog looking at? Maybe a piece of cheese. Also, interesting choice of three kinds of dogs to have, and it’s great that they’re all allowed on the bed.

Okay, here’s one with the terrier-dog looking at the camera and the Cocker-mix looking over there at the cheese. You pick which one you like more. (I know the link looks weird, with all those percent signs, but it works.)[Woman%20reading%20on%20bed%20with%20three%20dogs.]-24U39YXP3JD.html

Come dancing. It’s only natural. Just like the Palais on a Saturday.

How to ride on heelies without cracking your skull on the pavement. (Technically the leading injuries from these things are to the wrist and elbow.)


Which of the founding fathers owned slaves and had forced sex with them and so also owned all their own slave children? Trick question. It’s all of them.

And fragile white sadness. This is to make fun of Lana Del Rey. You can still think Lana Del Rey is cool and enjoy them ripping on her at the same time. Nobody is as cool as Lydia Lunch, Laurie Anderson, Vi Hart, Simone Giertz or Physics Girl, and so what? Everyone can’t be Simone Giertz (say yeertz) and go around inventing and building amazing machines and speaking Swedish, Chinese, Italian /and/ California English with equal fluency. Be the best person you can be, and be happy with that, or sad, whatever blows your skirts up.