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Ho, ro, the missile-o, the missile in the si-lo!


     “I have never seen a beer or wine or other alcohol company use a drunk person in their ads. Are they embarrassed by us?”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-04) 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.


From a very short way into the show and lasting forty-five amazing minutes is Doug Nunn’s, Ken Krause’s and Marshall Warner’s Snap Sessions project /Hey! The Irish Persons: the Disappearance of a Storied Folk Group./ It’s made of Hit and Run Theater material going all the way back to /forty years ago/ when this baker’s dozen of talented people were just starting out and the world was their oyster, except for the months with an R in them. It makes me think of the film /A Mighty Wind/, which you’d enjoy, not least because of Parker Posey, who I have a picture of in my wallet, that Juanita knows about, it’s not a problem.

Besides all that, and because you’re back in quarantine, here’s an extra-large pack of 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 right. (They recently changed how WordPress works, so I’m experimenting this time with not bothering to painstakingly make all the links open in a separate tab. You’ll have to press the back button to come back here. If you don’t like it this way –or if you’re reading this as an email because you’re subscribed, and it shows up all weird, which, I don’t know, it might happen–  please let me know so I can take steps.

Overture fire.

Death in marbles.

Wednesday was the 36th anniversary of the 1984 poison-gas negligent mass-homicide of an entire city in India by the Union-Carbide corporation. The death estimate varies between 3,800 to 16,000, because when everyone in town is occupied going blind, coughing up their lungs and drowning in their own erupting bodily fluids, no-one’s going around counting each other, exactly, and afterward there’s the problem of /what do we do with all these stinking corpses of poor people?/ Bulldoze them into trenches, funny you should ask. In all, 600,000 people were poisoned. Here’s the story of how it all came about in a chain of dominoes, each domino representing another point of appalling thoughtlessness on the part of Union Carbide (now Dow Chemical) who still hasn’t made it right to the survivors, many of whom had good cause to envy the dead. (1 hour)

Understanding the Beirut blast, a much briefer, arguably more humane yet similarly negligent disaster.

Woman yelling at cat in art through the ages. (via BoingBoing)

Blue. (When I think of blue, I see the color, but when I see the word blue by itself I hear the seven-note warble of Joni Mitchell saying it at the beginning of her song /Blue/. Of course, if it’s within a sentence there’s no time for that.)

Rerun: “Because we rollerskated today we will go to college tomorrow.”


Hot glue web shooter. This is so great.

That explains it.

This [fill in blank] does not exist.

Beautiful world.

One-man theremin-saw duo.

“The sight of a dead dog floating on the surface nearby was a very welcome sight to Ransonnet as it proved to him that there were no sharks to be feared.”

Six years old and she can sing like a bird and bar an F at the same time. Imagine what she’ll sound like in just a few years if stardom doesn’t wreck her with drugs and tattoos.

1. I looked up the whole series of MiuMiu’s work and was especially laugh/smiling appreciatively at one of them when I realized the dang meatballs were burning in the pan. The apartment was filled with smoke. Son of a bitch. 2. Meatballs burned on one side can be salvaged with Valentina sauce or, if you’re out of that, ketchup and cayenne pepper. From son of a bitch to pretty good, just like that. It’s like barbecue. 3. I left the windows closed against the cold and expected the HEPA filter, so useful during California red-sun fire weeks of this epoch, to clear it up so the pet bird wouldn’t choke, speaking of choking, see above, and in half an hour it was fine. When Juanita got home from work I asked her if she smelled anything odd in here and she said no, why? That filter was ten dollars at the thrift store I don’t even /remember/ how many years ago, it’s been running all that time, and every couple of months I take the cover off and vacuum away the felt-like blanket of dust that develops on the charcoal-plastic outer ring. Last summer the downstairs neighbor said something about the 60Hz humming through the floor bothering her, so I got a package of foam sponges from the dollar store to make vibration-absorbing feet for it and now it’s whisper quiet; I can’t even hear it from the bed, and you can only hear it on the radio if I turn my microphone all the way up. Make and model: Honeywell Enviracaire (250 cubic feet per minute). Five stars, and two thumbs up, except in Middle Eastern countries where that’s an enraging sex and/or hygeine insult, worse than touching your thumb with your index finger, which, here in the West, used to be what they called /the high sign/, meaning /okay! or well done!/ but now means /white power/ because the other fingers make the W of /white/ and the finger and thumb make the P, so don’t do that either. Don’t do anything. Just keep your mouth shut, arms slack at your sides, tremble as imperceptibly as you can, avoid eye contact and try not to fart and you’ll get through this.

Doreen Ketchens, queen of the clarinet.

I get that the thing dangling from the ceiling is decorative swirl of some sort, but what is that thing on the table? Is it supposed to be an art snake?

A watch with mechanical birds to silently chime the time.

Photographs that accidentally look like Renaissance art. (via NagOnTheLake)

Nothing is changing about the size or position of the rotating wheels. They’re not moving around; they’re not getting bigger or smaller. The only thing that’s changing is the arrows in their centers. Put your thumb on the screen to cover the arrows and you’ll see.

With that illusion in mind, in analogous news which bears repeating: The stock market is not the economy. It’s a parasitical casino, like Biff’s casino in /Back to the Future II/. The casino is apparently doing swell, the surrounding community is a bleak hellscape, and somehow without access to fantasy time travel we need to repair the timeline.

Here are some old clips of James Randi (R.I.P.) gently humiliating psychic mind readers, aura feelers, speakers-with-the-dead, dowsers, etc. by allowing them to attempt their tricks under conditions where they can’t cheat. Unless psychics can cheat, their trick can’t work. For decades the well-publicized offer stood of /a million dollars/ to anyone who could honestly demonstrate any psychic or supernatural power at all, and there were plenty of people who tried. Prince Hal, here, for example, though he was only going for $10,000.

Understanding additive synthesizers. (via b3ta) (15 min.)

They gave a picture of a pretty girl fresh out of the shower to Photoshop artists all over the world and said, “Make this one beautiful in your country.” Some of them came out looking like Star Trek space aliens. (One even has Trill spots across the chest.) The U.S. one looks like 1980s Teen Prostitute Barbie. The Phillippines one seems familiar, and I’m trying to think of why. Ah! They’ve lowered her forehead by sticking on hair from a random Clairol box, painted cut-yourself-if-you’re-not-careful cheekbones and added enough spray eye makeup to convert her into Jennifer Garner at the very beginning of the process of morphing into a raccoon or perhaps a badger. I /knew/ I’d seen that somewhere before. “And just where do /you/ think you’re going, young lady, all tarted up like that?” “Let her have her fun, Patrick-Michael. She’s only young once… You go on, darlin’, have a good toim. Call us to come get you if you get too pissed to be sexually responsible.”

Descriptive lyrics to /Belle/.

Australian Star Wars fan flick.

Where the U.S. hides its shipping secrets, and why half the cargo ships on Earth are registered in Liberia.

Mama mia! she says. (You have to click on View and you might also have to click the sound on.) (via Everlasting Blort)


These people play glass harp and a guy joined their band who has a theremin. This is the exact opposite of when the obnoxious bongo guy joined Flight of the Conchords.


The sigil engine. (via BoingBoing)

Get the funk on. (via b3ta)

Tracy Newman plays Cripple Creek on the banjo.

“It’s a Tokyo basketball, it’s an Oslo basketball, it’s a Rio de Janeiro basketball.”

“Elmore Jang’s got nothin’ on /this/ fonky.”


Nice truck. The sign they tied the rope to says /Dumping Prohibited/. And their trash turned out to contain paperwork with names and addresses. Oy.

An hour over sea places of Norway.

Juanita showed me this:

…And this:

I really like this message: Your creative and musical heroes all once sucked just as hard as you do. It is inspiring. Practice and progress.

It’s like it’s saying /Do me! Do me!/

Doom? Why so? (via NagOnTheLake)

Photos of the damage. They’re not going to fix it. It’s over.

…Can you watch recordings of it finally catastrophically failing and read all about it? Sure. Here:

All about asteroid strikes. “The thing that most closely resembles a meteorite impact is a very large nuclear explosion.”

The coin.

The magic fishbone.

Hell of a year. Bottomless scroll of photos.

Journey of beef.

The two little pigs.

His old flame.

This reminds me of a standup comic guy Hit and Run Theater brought to Crown Hall once who made fun of Ronald Reagan being too stupid to even feel pain when he was shot. The comic said, “Even a /paramecium/ knows when it’s been /hurt/.” (The would-be assassin used a very small-caliber gun and Reagan always wore a bulletproof vest under his suit coat when in transit. The early 1980s weren’t that far away from the late 1960s. The Kennedys (J. and R.) and MLK and all were still fresh in everyone’s mind.)

Each of the devices in this carefully-arranged heap has some important part of it that works on an electrical principle Nikola Tesla discovered and/or popularized. (via EverlastingBlort)

This isn’t an audition. This is the man they hired, doing his job.

Whoa, Saint Theresa, higher than the moon.

The drunk guy who decides packaging. (via b3ta)

Who likes to rock the party? New /Zealand/ likes to rock the party.

It’s a comic strip, but it’s an actual real-life event.

…As is this.

…And this.

…And this. I can’t stand this. LOOKATTHEROAD! LOOKATTHEROAD! LOOKATTHEROAD! It’s bad enough when in a movie or teevee show the driver turns to speak intently to the passenger, eye to eye, while the car continues at speed. This is ten times as bad as that. This is /crazy/.

And this full wide-open beaver moon.

Musical notation.×1152/skynews-wildlife-photographer_5189980.jpg

Evocation of Stravinski. (via b3ta)

Inverted fire tornado.

Native American folklore.

Brap! (via the Anderson Valley Advertiser)

Long exposure drone photography.

Rerun: It’s beginning to look a lot like Fish Men.

This is the guitar-playing musical-machinery afficionado who they called on the phone to make a video about /Eric Clapton’s/ old strat that they were set to auction off, and after he did, and like four million people watched it, they sold a $200 guitar for $1.5 million. Here he is favorably reviewing a copy of Jack White’s steampunkish octave stomp box. (I still have my Electro-Harmonix Micro-Synthesizer analog stomp box from the early 1980s. One of its effects is similar to this. Chris Diurni used it in the then-Mendocino Community School recording studio to embellish Charles Tyler’s song /Strange Fish/. It sounds like a dinosaur screaming.)

Wish fulfillment.

Another car crash compilation.

Brother and sister play Back in Black.

And if you have some time left over, or you wake up in the middle of the night and feel antsy, here (via BitsAndPieces):

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