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Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Three bags, full, sir.


   “When you’re accustomed to privilege. Equality feels like oppression.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2019-09-20) 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 a couple of years. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

Some more prose-poetry from Jay Frankston, further chronicles of Craig Stehr, John Sakowicz proposal of a Mendocino Mondragon Corporation, the Comtesse deSpair traveled to visit Elly Cooney and have a chat (chat’s not in the show; that’s just cool news), and Alex Bosworth, on top of all his other troubles, went to take out the trash, the yard light was out, and someone, possibly the meter reader, had left the cover off a maintenance box in the ground… oy. Anyway, Alex called from the hospital at about 3am Arkansas time and, in spite of the pain management medicine for his /broken and recently reset leg/, told a few complex off-color jokes with a Yiddish lilt in the flourish. In stage magic, that part is called the prestige. With regular jokes it’s simply the punchline, but in both Jewish humor and calligraphy it’s properly the /flourish/, the right word, the right tool for the job. In pornography it’s the /money shot/. What a wonderful language, isn’t it? where every category of experience gets its own name for the payload, or sting, or kicker, or takeaway, or chorus-and-fade, or switcharoo, or bangarang, or boot. I’ll stop now.

Besides all that, here are links to further worthwhile educational and/or sensational items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right, like, for example, the fabulous Everlasting Blort, and the similarly fabulous B3ta, which I make a special point of mentioning here because the links I get from them don’t promote them, and I realize I’ve been unfairly ignoring that:

“Hail, hail, fire and snow/ Call the angel, we may go/ Far away, far to see/ Friendly angel, come to me.” (Make sure to click the sound on.)

A bad day in space. In which everything goes wrong.

Award-winning new astronomy photographs.

Real wasps close-up and in slow motion. It gives them a fascinating dreamy 1960s-plasticky quality. Bright shiny mechanical living creatures. Lean in and put your eye right on it. Trigger warning: wasps, close-up.

You know how they sometimes have two superheroes blasting their conflicting powers at each other –a freeze ray coming from one and a heat ray coming from the other– or two wizards blowing competing spells at each other, the spells meeting in the air while they grimace and clench all their muscles to keep the spells going? This is like that.

“It’s in this area that the most fascinating battles between two unlikely enemies happen. Sperm whales hunt and attack giant squid the size of a house.”

I see this as an analogy for the same things I saw it as an analogy for the first time I saw it in 1983. And even more. And so do you.

Further adventures in looping.

How we get colored pencils.

Back-to-school essentials. Pretty good child actors.

The shoe people.

Geert Chatrou whistles at TEDx Rotterdam 2010. Greatest whistler, or /siffleur/, in the world.

Look at this! It’s PVC pipe and foam and cardboard.

Of course I read this on the air, but I wanted you to see the photographs of the famous recent attack on the Arabian oil boobs. That would be the Arabia that just last month crucified and/or beheaded a few hundred men, women and children for attending a peaceful protest or posting a derisive photograph or mouthing off to a rich person. They chop off the heads of children. It makes it hard to be on their side about any goddamn thing at all. And yet we’re still selling them hundreds of millions of dollars in bombs and rockets and so on, to do as they please with it all, and it pleases them lately to bombard Syrian civilians, hence the protests and the mouthing off. I think that’s worse than a few oil boobs burning down. I don’t really care about those oil boobs. Do you? Because who was hurt there? Nobody. That’s just vandalism. Mass murder is murder.

Speaking of which, but in a wider arena, here’s Plan A. (More on this subject below, um, down there a bit.)

All that toxic crap so close to her eyes. Bleagh!

This wonderful couple has invented a functional language of their own. It was a lot of work, but totally worth it. Now the sad part, not in the video and obviously not these peoples’ fault: elsewhere in the world, languages many thousands of people once spoke are dead now or down their last few speakers, their last two, soon their last one. More people fluently speak Klingon than Navaho.



Hooker’s lips. Her, or his, real name.

Mood swings of a sort (via

Those look a lot like coils in very old radio equipment.

“A farmer casually walks past a fallen spacecraft.”

A very short, exciting dinosaur movie. Spoiler-not-spoiler: I always love it when the hero is the smart little girl.

Kung fu motion visualization. You know what they arrested him for? Rustlin’.

That ain’t workin’. That’s the way you do it. You fly the chainsaw through the line of trees. Except it /is/ working; it’s working great, here. So many moving parts, though. Still, way safer than sending a man up into all those trees to cut the limbs away. That’s some of the most dangerous work on the planet.

Lucille Ball dancing the hula for a disgusting look-you-up-and-down creep. That’s how you got the job in those days, toots. Not at all like now.

A convincing argument.

Marx for cats.


Los Aeronautas.

Like a pole dance, but with ropes and a stick instead, and in 1897.

Another fine short Dust film from last year. (20 min.)


The camera-motorbike guy goes way too close, and it’s already dangerous enough. Ben Stiller did something like this in /The Secret Life of Walter Mitty/, but he tied the rock to his hand with a necktie and it didn’t fall off.

These games are like what poet and painter Scott Croghan and I used to do when we worked together in the kitchen at Brannon’s Restaurant in the early 1980s, where Flow is now. We would think up word games, and it made the time go fast.

Rerun: Best friend.

Man’s best friend.

Counting down.

The riddle of the secret sauce.

A new kind of boat.

Epergnes of note.

Boomerang cutter. Show some respect.

How’s the soup?

Small moves.

Fracking with an atom bomb. Doo dah, doo dah.

How a plausible nuclear war we’re just metaphorically two minutes away from would kill 35 million people in the first hour. (Scroll down and watch the video.)

Beer. Is there anything it can’t do?

How to live not that long ago. Especially if you want to show off your flaky bottom crust.


“No longer just a staple of religion, ritual or romance, candles today are a /hot/ decorative item.”

Drat, where’s my head? I’m sure you left it around here somewhere.

As a project it’s nice the way it is, it’s a great idea, but it would also be neat to photoshop other things /into/ their hands. A gun, the neck of a chihuahua in a tutu, a live snake upside-down and backward, a fat wad of sopping-bloody money, etc. Or cut the people out and clip them together in various directions by their hands, like train cars couple. Use your imagination.

Here’s why you don’t bring a flappy shirt to a flare-gun fight. It’s worse than no protection at all.

“Go in. Go left. Enhance. Gimme a hard copy of that.”

Nobody’s laughing but the red haired guy in Clark Kent glasses.

A bicycle rider ad for a kind of drink.

This year’s homecoming assembly dance at Walden Grove High School in Sahuarita, Arizona.

Wait till a quiet time, put on good headphones and test your hearing.

And then tune your instrument.

Like this guy.

Or this guy (who is dead).

“…In which a shipful of moon-exploring astronauts cawn’t remember their lines and encounter a group of telepawthic subterranean interpretive dawncers bent on sexy world domination…”




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