Skip to content

Shih tzus in the mist.



Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-03-19) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


Thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back quite a way.

And here’s a fresh batch of 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:

Further fascinating demystification of the Antikythera orrery. (27 min.)

For the planets are in fact not gods and goddesses ruling the affairs of man and advising you to be cautious in dealing with a friend but simply colorful and interesting places, hands of a giant clock, and if our robots can go there we can go there, and they can, and we will. Not you or I, maybe, but people– the best, smartest and bravest people.

Adorable pedal cars and pedal tractors and pedal rocketplanes and so on.


The sound of his voice. I wish my voice sounded like that. I had forgotten all about this show. I used to like it. Columbo had his, “Oh, just one more thing...” Baretta has his parrot, Fred. (I don’t know if Fred is still alive, but there’s a 2014 article about how he’d just turned 100 years old!) And Banacek had, “There’s an old Polish proverb.”

Lenny Laks – All Pink Inside.

Dog in heaven.

Why do you suppose the mother is so tame and trusting? Albatross. (via b3ta)

Boojie woojie. Big smile.

This little girl has been playing trumpet on stage since she was too small to hold the trumpet up. I’ve tried to play brass instruments. I can’t even make a proper /fart/ sound.

Mouth sound effects maestro Michael Winslow’s demo reel.

AyoooO00Oooo. WAH-rah-RAH-wah-oowah-oowahyanah.

The lost sound.

“And just do this until no-one’s willing to be in a Zoom call with you.”

The gentlest boom boom boom boom you will ever hear. He’s not really going to shoot her down; that’s just a metaphor.

The annual blessing of the guns, maybe with WD-40. Look how /old/ some of the guns are. All different kinds. How many of them do you suppose have shot someone suspected of being unfaithful, or who was mouthing off, or standing too close to the wrong car, or who wouldn’t turn that goddamn music down, or who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Blessing anything is just childish superstitious nonsense, but /guns/?

Speaking of which.

Kryachik, Kvachik and Kruchik. Hinko, Dinko and Vinko. Qui, Quo, Qua. Etc. (Click on the map to make it big enough to read.)

All about what many in the film industry call Shithole Color Grading. They don’t like it, but they have to do it anymore, because otherwise we don’t know what country is being shot up here. We’ve been trained: this normal color is our place, and this other color is a shithole country, hence the term… It’s odd that I will go along with the conventional spelling for shithole, even though you think /shith-ohl/ when you see it. It still bugs me every time someone –a cartoonist usually– spells god damn it /goddamnit/, because that looks like /god dam nit/. If you take out the spaces it should become /goddammit/, goddammit. And homeowner flashes the word meow, so should be hyphenated to home-owner. Okay, from now on: shit-hole. Fixed. Also it’s ree-NAY-sunss, not REN-uh-zonss. And kuh-REEB-ee-un, for the people there: the Carib (kuh-REEB).

Whereas, no problems with the colors here.

Computer animated old painting. And scroll down for the next one too; just as good. (You might have to click the sound on.) (via NagOnTheLake)

My head hurts from /crying/ after the last little bit of this one. So good. It was awhile ago. I hope they’re still happy together and didn’t just start fighting right away and never be in the same orchestra together anymore because all men are bastards and all women are crazy. I hope they get old together and never get sick, and just get more comfortable and sweet with each other until they, I dunno, evaporate together into the sky, but how likely is that? Maybe that’s why we cry at weddings.

Electric guitar amplifiers of the olden days. Think of all the guitars gently weeping through these lovely old cloth-covered plywood boxes that you could cook an egg on because of the hot vacuum tubes inside. Here, do this: close your eyes, remember turning on an old table radio. Wait a moment. Smell that? That’s grease and dust from the air sublimating off the surface of the vacuum tubes. I love that smell. When my grandparents got out of the restaurant business they gave me the record player amplifier and it /reeked/ of that great smell, probably because of all the flour and cigaret smoke and pepperoni and stuff that had wafted through it over the years. You’d turn it on and it would all come back all over again, like the 1940s baseball games that came from the little boy’s haunted radio in that Harlan Ellison story whose title escapes me at the moment.

Julien Baker – Hardline.

See the space station with your own eyes.

How we get bicycles.

A happy song and dance about jumper cables. (via Everlasting Blort)

WAP in metal.

Recalls the Darling Mermaid Darlings. But everything about women dressed up for a swimming show does.

The lost sound.

A whole page of then-and-now-wipe collections. (via NagOnTheLake)

Know me by my instrument.

The people who were shot: Who they were, with pictures.

It is omniscient narration all the way up.

Nuns with knees. Knee nuns.

And there you have it.

1970s French science-fiction comic book art.

Art. (via Everlasting Blort)

Happy. (via Everlasting Blort)


The birds. (via NagOnTheLake)

Uh-oh, he says.

Oh, so cute. And he eats the walls and doors too. He can’t help it. It’s in his nature.

“She wansa fight I’ll give ‘er a fight!” The big one built like a fridge got the worst of it, I think, but she doesn’t think that. She thinks she won, and she wants to go back and win some more, and she’s the one who started it by showing up to make trouble in the first place. The other one wasn’t even the one she was mad at. That’s the problem with situations like this: I watched the video, I read the whole story, and I still don’t understand it, except that bigotry and family pride is involved. Bigotry between Gypsies and crackers in this case. This is West Side Story (Puerto Ricans and Poles), Pizza My Heart (rival restaurant families), Warm Bodies (mortal girl, zombie boy): it’s Romeo and Juliette. “Two families, both alike in dignity, in fair [Wherever], where we lay our scene. From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”

This is only 40 seconds long; you can hold your breath that long. It’s like the driver of the car considers his options for a moment and then goes, “Ehh, she’ll be all right. Let her get up by herself,” and continues on as if nothing happened.

What a dynamic photograph. It reminds me of Russel Crowe lifting the boy by his hand up over the back of the ship after the boy’s death-defying brave mission, shouting happily in the boy’s face, “/Tell/ me that wasn’t fun!” Skiing towed by a galloping horse, out of all the crazy dangerous things people do– I would do this. Even after the summer between 7th and 8th grade, tearing my leg open in a bloody 7-shape on the broken off steering wheel of the gravity cart, crashing into a Corvair coming around the turn the other way, from being towed downhill by an extension cord behind the neighbor kid’s bicycle. It hurt like hell, and it took 40 stitches, and worse than that it was mortifying, but /tell me that wasn’t fun/.×800/media/img/photo/2021/03/photos-week-1/a11_1231563266/original.jpg

The exact opposite of that. This is just idiotic.

And the further opposite of /that/. I don’t know how much of this is real, but the finished product is very dreamlike flying.

The paper.

Balls, said the queen. Ping pong balls.

Neat vehicles. The Birdseye Pea Car and hundreds of other things flickr’s algorithm knows you’ll like if you like that.

Snake-cloud, telegraph pole, railroad tracks. Rampant centipede, fallen ladder, flying tire iron. Teller of Penn and Teller telekinesing a Rhine card image onto a blackboard.


Art. (via Everlasting Blort)

Art. This is like what William Gibson and Bruce Sterling I imagined video to be in /The Difference Engine/.

And Corgis. The periodic squeaky-toy punctuation is the heart of it. It’s a complex nearly choreographed interaction between nearly identical pets –I’m trying to stop from saying /both alike in dignity/ but, sure. Like with the wedding aftermath, see above, I think here it’s something like this: “/I/ am the boss.” “You are not!” *squeak* “You still here?” “/I’m/ not leaving, /you/ are leaving!” “I hate you!” “/I/ hate /you/!” *squeak* …But compared to the wedding, the little dogs are more– um– I dunno, I don’t have much of a vocabulary, just: Even with brains no bigger than a hazelnut, with the dogs, this isn’t impending crippling carnage, it’s a conversation. They’d be /horrified and miserably sorry/ if someone got hurt, not elated. They’ll be going in to eat dinner together later out of the same metal dish. They’re fine.

From → Uncategorized

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: