Narcissisma, pride of Pomona, belle of Biloxi.
“She got no bellybutton, too, no high-heel shoe.” –Don McLean
An unusually crowded night. Notty Bumbo (his real name) came and read a story and some poetry. Molly B brought pie and a doggerel paean to a redwood’s capacity to wreck your septic line. Stuart Cohen played guitar until his hand hurt. He sang his song about the big deal on 9/11, which was fifteen years ago tomorrow; in three years the trillion-dollar war(s) we started in response to that, on all the wrong people, will be old enough to join the Army. Scott Peterson called to talk about fracking under the sea off the coast of California. Much later on, an excited young man wandered in to inform me that /the door was open/; he sat at the guest mic and delivered a short fast poem about, um, kegs (I think) (possibly cakes), the bitches, and somebody’s grandmother, between whom he couldn’t decide which one to do, or to “do”. He must have resolved it, because a couple of hours later he stopped by again, this time to /shout out/, as they say, to all the bitches (see above), or possible from them, hard to tell. The radio station is next to the Tip Top bar, which also explains the occasional distant ejaculation of laughter or dismay, the giant motorcycles that sound like a string of M-80s going off, and the metronomically barking dog.
A busy show with a lot to recommend it. Also a lot of technical mistakes on my part that at the time made me cringe, but afterward, skimming the aircheck, I just find funny. Volume problems, mostly. And forgetting to turn a mic on (or off). Several people talking at once, sounding like the visual of the ocean liner stateroom scene in /A Night at the Opera/. But mostly it’s just a great deal of useful information, including an essay on why not to stop a suicide, a story about the interpersonal vicissitudes of stripping for a living, convict yoga (and medicinal ice cream, for meth hangover), the discovery of surprisingly complex space dust, the new dented-can store they’re going to put at the scenic corner of Highways 1 and 20, a few thoughtful angles on racism and bigotry, Kurt Vonnegut on kindness, George Carlin and Tom Waits on advertising, the 1960s Soviet /Eureka/, “clean eating” debunked, etc. It’s a seven-and-a-half-hour show; it should take between twenty seconds and twenty minutes to download, depending on whether you live in Korea or rural U.S.
And, entirely aside of all that, here are links to a few not necessarily radio-useful but otherwise worthwhile items that I happened upon while putting the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.
Deaf King Kong. A signed joke.
Why weddings are a total ripoff. (Also, science has shown that the more you pay for a wedding, the more likely it is that the marriage will end in divorce.)
An educational comic strip to explain Friday’s (Sept. 9) virtually massive prison strike.
There’s something familiar about those stock kids.
Artificial apophenia. Apophenia is apparently pareidolia on steroids.
A quick tour of Burning Man 2016.
How was Burning Man? /What a question./
Are Hispanics white?
Mario Paint for music.
Contents of a typical ostrich’s stomach.
I understand that it looks hard, even impossible, but I’m gonna /show/ you how to do it.
Giving the wheat what-for.
A beautiful retro-design synthesizer.
A complicated sad dance. This is supposed to be about all those 102 people who were shot in that nightclub in Orlando.
Not so good for the poor fish, but awww anyway.
All the ST TOS villains.
Idle rat penis, if you want to use /all/ the letters.
State of the art phenakistoscopes, 1833.
On the timeline, bracket the years you want to see photos taken between.
It’s the same chaotic dangerous unregulated fun every year and miraculously nobody ever gets hurt
Miss NASA wondered how your engines feel. So, here, they said, find out. Miss Body and Fender wondered what it said on the back of the sign they gave her. So –oh! Next she’ll scream to the others, “We have to get out of here! They’re going to cook and eat us!” Miss American Auto Club already knows; she has known all her life.
See? It’s always in the last place you look.
“…And trying to see the point of holding out for the second marshmallow.”
Virus trading cards.
Donald Campbell when fate stepped in.