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You say cicada, I say cicada.


     “The transition responsible for the pale blue color of liquid oxygen is the simultaneous excitation of two molecules from triplet sigma to singlet delta. The double excitation avoids spin forbiddeness.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-05-14) 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.

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:

Wouldn’t it be nice if it would rain in California, before the whole place goes up like a three-month-old Xmas tree in the fireplace.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we had real health care in the U.S.

The whale was exhausted and drowning tangled in hundreds of pounds of crab traps and ropes, and these people saved it. It’s like the old Jews used to say: The whole /world/ isn’t crazy.

Our outer limits.

Rerun: John Hyatt /Smashing a Perfectly Good Guitar/ (live on stage, 1993). In the late 1970s I had an amplifier that made my guitar sound very like this; it was extreme crunch/squeal vacuum tube distortion, like a furious little robot breaking its own hand squeezing the sound out of a stainless steel toothpaste tube. I had cut the amplifier circuit and power supply out of a then-old thrift-shop vacuum tube tape recorder and mounted it inside a speaker cabinet, and at first, before I got an electric guitar, I used a pair of heavy headphones clamped on the bell of my acoustic guitar for a pickup. Somewhere in all the moves I lost that amplifier. Tch. It might be time to make another one.

A page of illusion pages. (via NagOnTheLake)

SuperPixelQuest. (Wait till it loads, then click the right arrow in the cartoon, then again and again.)

This information doesn’t change my plans for myself (I don’t care what they do once I die: bury me in a trash bag, render me for chemicals, make a theater Yorick out of my skull; do as you please), but for people who have a traditional $20K viewing funeral in mind, there’s a lot you can learn from this pleasant expert on the subject. For example, there are different colors of embalming fluid, including a special red kind to replace your blood with (if they get to you fast enough and can still force it through) so you don’t look quite so ghastly, and they have little plastic things for your eyeballs with hooks on the outside of them to close your eyelids over so they stay closed and don’t spring open at the wrong time when the flesh dries out; they’re like the fasteners for Ace bandages but inside-out. Also, if you’re too bulky or stiff to dress they cut off the back of the clothes and just drape them over you and tuck the edges under because what difference does it make now? You won’t be getting up to answer the door and talk to the Jehovah’s Witnesses anymore. You can just lie there under your tent of clothes and be dead. (via

French flying.

Rerun: French pattycake cats.

How we get Uluru.

“Like Mrs. Winslow –she comes with a bible covered in smallpox.”

“My company is called Total Raptor Experience.”

Birds doing things.

People hoarding gasoline, not only causing the shortage but endangering themselves and everyone else.

It’s the insurrection, Charlie Brown.

Randy Rainbow’s latest.

“Dristan’s like sending your sinuses to Arizona.” They’re called sinuses because of their shape. Sinus is Latin for bay, pocket, curve, or bosom.

From the air. (via NagOnTheLake)

Hitting a moving target. It isn’t merely leading it, like leading a duck. You’re moving too.

Via Everlasting Blort.

Art. (via Everlasting Blort)

Detroit, Michigan, 1921. “Where there’s smoke, there’s work.”

Chicago from the air, 1914. Imagine what this was like for the people waving down and pointing at this and that, in that time: magical dreamlike flying. (via NagOnTheLake)

Cute little tilt-shift L.A.

Not just in Ireland.

Antique dinosaurs.

Chem dubstep.

The 1934 Crosley XERVAC (say EX-er-vak). “Don’t be bald.” ($179.50 in 1934 is like $3,542 in 2021. Basically it’s a vacuum cleaner attached to a football helmet with a puffy rubber seal around your head. The theory was that it would suck the hairs out to make them grow faster.) (Here in the future there are many equally quackish products to cure baldness: a $270 hairbrush that has fifty cents’ worth of tiny colored lights in it, a hat with a coil of copper or silver wire inside, pills or tea or marshmallows made from the hair of very hairy animals (or, conversely, very bald fish), etc.×546.png

How famous painters might have designed a home. (via NagOnTheLake)

Victorian knitting.

Copper wire, solder and a marble.

Exciting day at the aluminum smelter’s. Flay rod’s gone out askew on treadle. (via b3ta)



Mayhem. I like the calm amused natural competence of the videographer calling the event.


All pop music is rearranged Sparks. (via b3ta)

Every one of these machines takes away another child’s job –a child like my grandfather in the early 19-teens. But it was dangerous work. One of the several conflicting stories I was told about how he got his crown feature, his one all-white Odin-eye, involved his being struck in the face on a daily basis with bowling pins, some ejected like missiles from the lanes, some wielded in fights with other jauntily be-hatted pinsetter boys.

Baby Got Bach. The highlight is at 1:06, when the tympanist loses control of his whanger (the heavy drum beating stick) which knocks the xylophonist behind him off her feet.

I collect the different versions of Baby Got Back. There’s a ska version, and a barbershop quartet version, and of course there’s the original, but my favorite is when Jonathan Coulton did it. Here he is live in a little club with just his guitar:

In 1926, Nikola Tesla predicted a future when /machines/ would set bowling pins, assemble appliances, unite and pacify the world by using walls of electrical force to defend whole nations. A future of beehive-like communist efficiency and matriarchal harmony, where mankind will trade wheels for wings… Hmm, when I was six or seven –six, I think– I traded my prize possession, a wind-up plastic rocket-car, for a rattly-noisy old-style skateboard and then flew off the skateboard into a shrub; that’s kind of the same thing.

No helmets or protection for hands or elbows or knees. No brakes. No spotters for cars on cross streets. Happy, carefree white kids only occasionally knocking off somebody’s land-yacht’s side mirror. All fun and games until somebody kills a bicyclist, but then, after a suitable period of mourning, let’s go again, why not?

I wonder, have this ridiculous big baby and her guest-book-scribbling camera goons been tested for those exercise drugs that make you act exactly this way? She’s in congress now, still acting like this, now lifting weights in the /Congressional/ gym. (I went looking for photographs of the Congressional gym, but it turns out to be against the law to take a picture in there.)

It is easier for a thread to pass through the eye of a needle.

41 micrometeorites in 2 minutes.

Luca Stricagnoli plays a little classical nachtmusik on a six-string banjo. He’s dressed up for it. He even has a toothpick in his mouth.


What. (via Fark)


Dangitall, nobody wants to work anymore.

I like the guy who does the car motor sounds with his mouth. Also the mouth-sounds girl with the eyebrows. And the mouth-sounds girl who makes a brass horn sound. But the people who pop their belly button out like an oogie squeeze toy and bend their elbows the wrong way and pop all the knuckles in their entire body (including their neck knuckles) just make me flinch back from the screen.

The Southern fart of destiny. Compare to vuvuzela or sports airhorn.

Way to sell the sizzle, marble-run ad. This reminds me of tennis shoe ads when I was little, for P.F. Flyers and Red Ball Jets, where the shoes in the ads would make a flash and a /boing/ sound and the kid would jump like a rocket. But in the real world they were just shoes made of canvas and rubber with no magical powers at all. This was an education for a lot of kids about media and commerce.

At least with P.F. Flyers you got the cool four-function ring (hidden compartment, signal mirror, magnifying glass, secret code circle).

Here’s another one. “Captured by spies. Follow dog!” Tommy runs like the wind, thanks to his P.F. Flyers and their patented space-age heel wedge.

Japanese gymnastic routine.

Forklift racers. (via b3ta)

Going literally like sixty in 1899 in an electric car. “As for the driver, the muscles of his body and neck become rigid in resisting the pressure of the air; his gaze is steadfastly fixed about two hundred yards ahead…”

It isn’t necessarily laziness. Maybe her back is bad and she can’t pull it by hand.

Motion Picture Magazine, 1911-1916 (with gaps).


An A.I.-generated house and real estate listing. (Be sure to scroll down through the interior images.)

And /A Remembrance of Aerial Forms/.


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