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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)

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