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The versatile interrobang.


     “There is a part of Mount Everest known as the Rainbow Valley. It is named not because there are rainbows there, but because of the brightly-colored jackets on the frozen corpses that litter it.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-01) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Angels, whether they exist or not, which they don’t any more than leprechauns or pookas, also don’t look like you thought. Angels were actually nightmare monsters of collections of massed eyeballs and feathers and fire (or ice) and mashed-together animal and bird heads, at least if you’re getting your information from the Bronze Age drug beatniks who wrote the Bible.

Some more from these three hard-driving little dancin’ Dutch girls.

Mask striptease. Don’t be drinking Pepsi when you watch this, or just swallow it first. Or do what you want; I’m not trying to tell you what to do.

Not CGI. These are real robots. The quadruped one using its arm and hand to mouth the words of the song makes me think of the Pierson’s Puppeteers, a race of creatures in Larry Niven’s science-fiction future history. They had two arms, though, with a mouth-hand at the end of each one. The brain, like the brains of General Dynamics robots, was in the torso, in the center of mass, like the bridges of Star Trek starships should have been. Why expose the brains and controls and most important functions in the position of an obvious bulls-eye for enemy guns?

How we get rose petal cigarettes, which beat last week’s asbestos-tipped ones all hollow in the health department, but which remind me, maybe because of the vivid color and intimacy of a cigaret, of an uncomfortable scene in an old Steve Martin movie that stuck in my mind, where the camera goes in close on where he puts lipstick around his wife’s nostrils in order to get an erection. I know that different people like different things, but thinking about that just makes me wince, even though nobody was being hurt. The characters in that story were so helplessly bleakly unhappy all the time. I wonder if there’s something about me and my life that someone else might wince about. Hmm. Anyway, cigarets:

Massive murmuration.

Cool insects flying in slow motion.

Wok this way.

Careful who your friends are.

…Here’s a lot more of that sort of thing.

Old film of Gemini 4 EVA fixed up clean. (via b3ta)



A successful small Japanese rocket motor test.

POV: toy train. It’s neat when it goes inside the world. I like the inside part as much as the outside part. When I was little in the L.A. area my mother was a real estate agent, and she must have sold houses to and for teevee and film people because I remember the backs and other-sides of houses and house-parts on sets in movie lots. Why not look around you right now and imagine the other side of everything you see being unfinished, with the side facing you just a facade. Certainly the walls are like that, and the other side and inside of the ceiling and the floor. I’ve spent enough time under houses and in crawlspaces and tight attics doing plumbing and wiring and so on, and I never liked to /be/ inside or under things, but just looking at it is okay and, as I said, neat. It’s too bad they don’t have a cat.

Speaking of the underpinnings and insides of things: Athens 2,500 years ago.

“There are sandwiches and sandwiches.” Why can you never starve in the desert? Because of all the sand which is there. Why do they call camels the ships of the desert? Because of all the Arab seamen in them. Try the veal.

Restoration. What a beautiful color. In the very early 1980s I paid an extra $20 at Earl Scheib on Arden Way ($79.95 instead of $59.95) for that color paint on my 1963 Rambler Classic, very like this one. When that car died utterly, every part of the motor and drivetrain and brakes and all hopeless, it still looked like a gem, and the next-door neighbor bought it just to leave it in his barn and sit in it with his wife. True story.

“No single rock band in the ’90s was playing better chess against their audience.”

Tina Weymouth.

Yo-yo tricks explained employing slow motion.

“This is what happens when you find a stranger in the Alps!” That isn’t what he said, really. That’s what they dubbed in instead so they could play it on teevee. Here’s just that part. And here is an Alp, for comparison. A single Alp.




Several short Bill Plympton cartoons suggested by Donald’s actual statements.

Ode to Yoy.


Giant ethereal projected Van Gogh exhibit. (say van GOFF) (“It must be real tough on Vincent van Gogh when those in the know call him Vincent van Gogh, for unless I’m way off it’s Vincent van Gogh.”)

Art of true death scenes.

And a shoebox of old photographs. I have questions about some of them. The double-exposure with the noose, for example. It used to be that every thrift store had a box of random families’ old photographs all mixed up together because people would die with no family and the estate sale people wouldn’t want to throw them away. For many reasons, I’m sure you can think of a few, that resource has dried up, and it’s a shame, because there are all sorts of creative uses for old photos. I had one for a long time that I remember getting for 15 cents, a professional photo of a pretty, young woman of about a hundred years ago now. It said in pen, “Delia, love, Glady.” Remind me to tell you sometime the incredible story of the headstone of Elizabeth Vivian.


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