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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.)

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