“Council meeting to consider placing traffic lights at the corner of Slough of Despond Blvd and Vo-dodio-do Way. Bring your harrowing accident stories. We need this. The children need this.” –G.K. Chesterton
You can still get it that way if that’s been working for you. But this is the future and so there’s another way. Hank Sims, publisher of Lost Coast Outpost, offered to set me up with a podcast. I told him about the complaints I’d been getting because of difficulties some people have with downloading shows via MediaFire, which is visually busy with flashing ads and numerous not-the-right-one download buttons, and he said, no problem, he’d take care of it. I asked him what he needed me to do to help, and the next email I got from him said, basically, /You don’t have to do anything but what you’re already doing. Just continue to send your shows to MediaFire as you’ve been and I’ll take it from there./ And half an hour later he wrote:
Now there is a Memo of the Air podcast feed here:
People who have podcast apps can plug that URL into their app, and they can download Memo of the Air that way, if they so choose. Unless they use iTunes, in which case they can only get their podcasts through the iTunes Store and not via a direct URL, and I’m not dealing with that, because it’s too hard.
Also, there is a hidden page on the Outpost that contains direct links to downloads of episodes. This could be easier for your people who have trouble downloading from Mediafire. It’s here:
So –sorry, Marco here again– if you want to hear the show(s), and you like the old way, continue as you were. Or get the podcast. Or if you want to directly download a show (or click on a Play button and just play it), try the direct way Hank offers.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this jiffy service and I truly appreciate it. Carry on, people, all watched over by machines of loving grace programmed by generous, competent souls like Hank Sims, to whom my hat is not only off but flung into the air and hanging for a flag atop the gleaming radio antenna of a (figurative) heaven that fairly admits all dogs, not just certificated service dogs. Even nervous ratlike teacup dogs that in life rode everywhere in their smoky-voiced mistresses’ shoulder bag, including into the grocery store in the baby seat of the cart. /That/ heaven.
Besides, here are links to a few not necessarily radio-useful but otherwise worthwhile items that I set aside while putting the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.
Half people are people too.
The metallophon. It’s a new Russian-invented musical instrument made out of guns and tuned metal plates.
This reminds me of something Eddie Murphy once said: “In America if you have money or a gun you can eat 24 hours a day.”
Donald Trump protected from demons by hands of faith. “We ax you God to bless him! and keep him safe! Thank y’all for lettin’ me go on a little bit longer. Bless you all!”
On the one hand, oops, funny. But on the other, what about the driver? The cameraphone guys are all, /Ho ho ho,/ but there’s a man in the the cab of that truck! Why is nobody running and diving in to help?
Once upon a time they sang the vodio-do, but that was long ago.
Mercury in retrograde explained without astrology. Because the sun, planets and moons are not gods and goddesses in command of our destiny, they’re distant balls of rock and/or ice and or gas and they’re a big clock, a clock that /doesn’t/ go, “The big planet’s on the ten and the little planet’s on the two, so it’s time for people who were born when the medium size planet was on the six and that moon there was on the nine to be wary in dealing with a friend.” And they don’t mysteriously turn around and go backward and then turn around and go forward again, because that would be impossible.
“But wouldn’t we realize that something was wrong?”
I understand this because I myself am inordinately interested in watches (and reading glasses). Last week, for the second time in five years, I lost a perfectly good seven dollar Walmart watch, bought another one, and then found the missing one. Now I have three.
Academic research presented in comix form.
How to undress in front of your husband.
I mean, see? See what happens when you try to hurt somebody? Let this be a lesson to you. And how about that t-shirt? Is that a print? Or– what kind of job paints up your shirt like that?
“This is a white man’s neighborhood. Japs keep moving.” America.
There ya go. Decent wi-fi anywhere there’s electricity, even out the ridge roads. Done. (Soon.)
Anti-science conspiracy theorists are always going on about the terrible consequences of editing and transforming life, but really it’ll be more like this:
You see how when the well-dressed woman isn’t satisfied with the surprisingly vicious dachshund, clearly a bad result of the technology, she puts it back through and gets a better result. It’s like with money. I just read that one pound of U.S. dimes, quarters, and half dollars, /in any combination/, is worth $20. Smart people figure out how do to things like that, and we all benefit. To be consistent, being against every little innovation means living outdoors in the sleet, without fitted clothing or hot running water or a flush toilet or a phone or radio or written language or really any art supplies at all. Not even a teepee or a yurt or shoes or a basket. Just roots and berries (in season) and chewing on a carrion animal’s raw heart, whole, all morning and all afternoon (when you’re lucky enough to come across one) because no atlatl, no knife, no fire, no cooking, and all dominated by the biggest guy who tells the most terrifying story about how weather comes from angry gods fighting on top of a mountain. Is that what you people want? Because I don’t.
I mean, look, case in point: This person has a house with at least a refrigerator, a gas oven and an internet camera phone (and another camera, the one we’re seeing through), she’s living and participating in a society that includes all the technological and scientific underpinnings and supply chains and educational level necessessary for these things to exist /and be available to just anybody/, and she believes that a convection vapor pattern on pyrex is literally the Germanic Caucasian son of the creator of ten-to-the-33rd-power cubic light-years of observable universe, come to show her a sign, um, of something– I don’t know, /Im here in UR kitchen, cookn UR foodz/, or /keep prayin’, momma/, or whatever.
And a song composed by artificial intelligence in the style of the Beatles.