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Traish LaRue and the Lemniscate of Gerono.


     “At first I didn’t believe it, that this woman who looked as fertile as the Tennessee Valley could not bear children. But the doctor explained that her insides were a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-05-07) 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.

This show has poetry by Paul Modic, Notty Bumbo, John Sakowicz and even Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674), among others. Stories by Sebastian of RelatoCorto, Mark Scaramella (and others) of the AVA, Alex Bosworth, and more. A couple of extended music breaks are all about food and proper (and improper) food-related behavior, some of that related to your choice of food’s effect upon colon health, including truncated pitches for variousproject bik quack products to supposedly clean out that important often overlooked organ, by nature self-cleaning as the ear, the nose and the vagina, for example.  Here I refer you to Paul Theroux’s swell book Millroy the Magician, whose message can be oversimplified to the spiritual urgency to “minimize colon transit time”. And [I refer you to] the film Death to Smoochy, which I associate in my mind with the book Millroy the Magician in the same way as the films /The Prestige/ and /The Illusionist/ call to each other, and the films /Lucky/ and /The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot/ call to each other, and so on.

Besides all that, 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:

A trick. Where real life mirrors the trick.

Because it’s a funny deliberate choice to spell damn /damb/ I appreciate this. But it’s a nonfunny deliberate choice when cartoonists write /damnit/, as occurs sometimes in otherwise superlative comic strips (like Existential Comics, whose archive is a vast and deep college course in philosophy presented in a witty and fun whirl). It should be damn it or dammit. When you read damnit you hear, in your head, dam nit. I’m not trying to tell people how to do their jobs –it’s their art after all, not mine– but I’m sure I’m not alone in this. Again, damb! is funny and adds points. Damnit is annoying and subtracts points. It’s just my opinion; do what you want to do.

Utilize your leaves.

How Space-X builds their rockets so fast.

Skip ahead to about six minutes into the video for the launch.

As long as the chiropractor and the mechanic don’t break anything, this is a great deal. Compare it to any wedding costing hundreds of times more and involving more stress than anything in your life besides moving house, or a loved one dying, or getting fired.

Ted Cruz, the booger on the lip of democracy.

You know who’s creepier than that? This fella. (1950s nutritional advice from a clown.)

Project bike. You have nothing to ride but your chains.



Stormy Weather in color– The Nicholas Bros. and Cab Calloway. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen this; when they leapfrog over each other to land in the splits down the giant staircase, I cry out in alarm and my hands fly up into the air to, I dunno, stop them. /GAAA!/ or /NO!/ or simply /NNN!/ Not /YEECH/; that would be reserved for if they were to actually split open in a bloody mess like a trashbag full of soup, which they are not and do not.

And these are not self-driving cars. When you see a rare story of a self-driving car making a mistake and bumping over a mailbox, and it’s presented as though that means self-driving cars are a bad idea, think of what a massively stupid idea it is for millions of people just like you and me, with all our maladies and tirednesses and preoccupations and internal distractions and quick little passions at something that just flitted across our monkey mind, not to mention glancing down to turn the heater up or change the channel on the radio or /looking away from the road entirely, to the person on the seat next to us, or even in the back seat, to see how they like what we’re saying/, all in the blender of traffic together, and four in ten of us on drugs and/or fiddling with the phone. There’s no comparison. And we’re never getting smarter or better at it; the A.I. are, and they’re looking in all directions at once, they can see in the dark and communicate with nearby vehicles and recite poetry at the same time– poetry in ultrasonic frequencies that repel deer from your path and even clean your teeth.

Electric chest weights.

Fly! Be free!

Trailer for a new movie about nuns with breasts.

“The universe is equal to the earth. I have heard this from elders.” Tribal people react to being shown the real scale of things. (I like it that the Hindi word for /good/ sounds like my Uncle Pat saying /OH boy/. It’s like Biff Rose telling that the Chinese word for /I love you/ sounds like /why me?/ You know, like the first thought is, She’s so wonderful, why does she love /me/? I love her so much. Or, God, this is awful, she’s a demon in sheep’s clothing, /why me?/

It’s an ad for a bicycle parts company, but it’s a nice little film about dogs. Don’t worry, nobody in this ever squashes the dog with a bike. (via Everlasting Blort)

Fascinating slow motion shots of starlings bird-bathing. Before industrialization the sky was often gray-black with these creatures. And they aren’t the only birds who murmurate, but they’re famous for it. Look up starlings murmurating… Okay, wow, I was so wrong. New York was infected with starlings as late as 1890 by Shakespeare fans who intended to introduce to North America all the birds the (U.K.) Bard mentioned in his plays. From an initial 80 birds, their population spread out and burgeoned to hundreds of millions in the early 1900s before eventually being cut back to manageable numbers by pesticides, climate change, shifts in food webs, the decline of horse shit everywhere, but mostly pet cats. True fact. People who complain that windmills kill birds conveniently don’t mention that thousands of times more birds are killed by crashing into glass windows and being predated upon by pussies.

Cool presence of mind. Though the slightest spark and you’ve had it, yourself.

Post-modern villainy.

Ray Bolger tapdancing three years before the cast him as Scarecrow, and probably why they did.

Aeroplanes accompanied by piano.

Snowboarding accompanied by piano.


T-Bone Walker.

Alphabet Rap 2.

rraaaaaAAAAAaaa. rrrAAAAAAAaaaaaaa.

I don’t think he (or she) is a fool. How were the kids supposed to know it would suddenly open?



/He/ knows who he is and what he’s got.

The female version of Mel Gibson calling a traffic officer /Sugar Tits/ but without the alcohol excuse and with conscious racism not whatever you call the other thing– sexism? or just drunk. Maybe she’s drunk, too.

Black and white.

Some talent. Taurin Circus. Fullscreen the cool promo reel.

Craig Stehr sent me the link to this. I knew a girl with ears like the lead singer’s. She had long straight blonde hair and the ears just poked straight out the sides through the curtains like truck rearview mirrors in a carwash. I always thought that was so cute. And for evolution purposes it’s probably a better design for a sound-centric predator creature or just for focusing on what you’re aimed at in general.

Here they are again.

Here they are again, again:

Queen o’ the May.

The human-for-scale reddit. (via TYWKIWDBI)

The sound of the cracking ice is my favorite element here. All the vignettes turn out okay for the subjects; you don’t have to be on the edge of your seat worrying for them. There’s a surprising number of interruptive ads, but that’s okay too. I never minded commercials at all when they’re clever. When I was small, and I’m thinking maybe four-to-six, here, and watching teevee in my grandmother’s house while the grownups were all across the alley working in the restaurant, I’d memorize the ads to perform for them when they came home. The cigaret ad songs, the situations; the Mr. Bubble ad in particular delighted me. And my attention was riveted to the series of Hertz rent-a-car ads where at the end a man and woman /fly down out of the sky/ to sit in a convertible car that’s speeding down the highway, driverless, expecting them. By now, to me, convertibles are horrible, almost as bad as a motorcycle, with the wind and noise, and belongings and bugs and grit whipping around and getting in your eyes and mouth, but if you could fly down into the car it would be worth all that, and the top of the car would have to be open, so… Of course, if you can fly, why do you need a car; and you’d need goggles and other protective clothing and maybe earplugs anyway, and a squirtgun against angry birds. But that’s now. I’m thinking about then. And it reminds me of when Jessica Jones is asked, “Can you fly?” and she thinks about it a moment and says, “It’s more like jumping and controlled falling.” Speaking of which:


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