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Trouble in Limboland.


     “See, the hardest thing for me was leaving the life. I still love the life. And we were treated like movie stars with muscle. We had it all, just for the asking. Our wives, mothers, kids, everybody rode along. I had paper bags filled with jewelry stashed in the kitchen. I had a sugar bowl full of coke next to the bed. Anything I wanted was a phone call away. Free cars. The keys to a dozen hideout flats all over the city. I’d bet twenty, thirty grand over a weekend and then I’d either blow the winnings in a week or go to the sharks to pay back the bookies. Didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything. When I was broke I would go out and rob some more. We ran everything. We paid off cops. We paid off lawyers. We paid off judges. Everybody had their hands out. Everything was for the taking. And now it’s all over. And that’s the hardest part. Today, everything is different. There’s no action. I have to wait around like everyone else. Can’t even get decent food. Right after I got here I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce and I got egg noodles and ketchup. I’m an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.” -Henry Hill, in Goodfellas

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-06-04) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


Thanks heaps 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:

Eyes in movies.

People amaze me.

I hate lipstick. I hate it on people. I hate it just standing there in sight being a repulsive, uh, substance, its texture, the smell, the feel of it when someone, even your adorable sweetheart, kisses you with lipstick on; everything about lipstick is awful… But– I don’t mind crayons at all. Crayons are fine, though I clearly remember as a small child being frustrated by how fragile they were. They could break in your fingers just by picking them up, before you even touched anything with them, and they wore down so fast. I preferred ballpoint pens and regular pencils; I really enjoyed sharpening pencils with a real crank-type pencil sharpener. The big fat pencils they gave you in school were insulting somehow. Anyway, here’s Stacy Greene’s creepily magnified visual paean to lipsticks which, oddly, I enjoy looking at, the way a person who hates spiders might enjoy cringing at magnified pictures of spiders: (via Everlasting Blort)

As much as I hate lipstick (and cigarets), I have always loved cigaret lighters. My uncle Pat used to take his lighters apart, to the tiniest part, on the kitchen table and clean them and reassemble them with fresh flints from the drug store and fresh cotton packing, and fill them with fluid. He kept and cherished every lighter he ever had, from even before the war against the Japanese in the Pacific.


It was a different world.

A neat project. Also the narrator pronounces the word kibosh the way /I/ do and not the way they tell you you’re supposed to, so extra points. And I appreciate that he recognizes his physical limitations and hires professionals to safely demonstrate the eventual product; he gets professional roller derby women. I used to watch roller derby on teevee after school. How tough the players were. They’d elbow each other off their skates sometimes and barrel completely over the rails. That was a goddamn /sport/; not like all this boring baseball and football and basketball and volleyball and golf and fricking /swimming races/. Now I want you to imagine roller derby, the way it was in the early 1970s, but with jetpacks. The idea of it makes me think of the rollerskating ball game the kids play in their ground level slum in /Alita: Battle Angel/; Alita is basically a teenage girl /Astro Boy/. We could have that now in real life, here in what we got instead of the future we were promised. Jetpack Roller Derby.

A compilation of Thurl Ravenscroft’s low notes.




Well, I think they’re wrong about it being bad. It reminds me of Henry Cow.

Two videos. “Gender reveal goes wrong when confetti cannon fires into father’s crotch.” (And) “Ya just can’t put a price on the look on your child’s face when they see a black person for the first time.” (The history, though brief, is narrated agonizingly slowly. Turn the speed up to 2X and it becomes much better.)

Prettiest drone-flies-into-volcano video so far.


A collection of photographs of Japanese industrial fairyland pipe sculptures at night. (via Everlasting Blort)

The story of Aloha Wanderwell, an example of nominative determinism.

No chute. He just has to not miss the special net. (via NagOnTheLake)

No chute. And no net.

“Men love pterodactyls.” (This young lady is right about that. In 1981 I made a pterodactyl skeleton out of plywood (orange Black & Decker jigsaw on sale from Doug’s Hardware) and hung it in the old Fort Bragg (CA) library that real estate gangsters burned down in 1987 along with a dozen other buildings in and near town, including the historic Piedmont bar and restaurant, which I still miss. Men loved it. Librarian Sylvia Kozak Budd (R.I.P.) also thought pterodactyls were pretty cool. She knew all about how to swear at people in Italian by silent gestures of the hands and arms. She could speak fluent Italian with her mouth too. When she was young she was married to a rich Italian hotelier, an actual Count, who owned his own Italian island (like the Adriatic Sea island hotel and bar frequented by seaplane-flying pirates in the Studio Ghibli film /Porco Rosso/), but she left him over a private point of difference and chose to live in Northern Califonia and be a librarian. Decades after their split the Count came to visit Sylvia and I met him. (I had thought she was kidding about her entire life story.) He was a birdlike, sharp-faced, alternately intense and twinkly man in his fifties, in very expensive-looking shoes. He was interested in my hand-swearing and he graciously made suggestions and corrected my technique. He had a big voice for such a small man; he sounded exactly like Ricardo Montalban, and I could easily see why Sylvia, or any woman, would fall for him in the first place, Count or no. (via NagOnTheLake)

This driver doesn’t sound upset to me, though. I think he just got some great news on the phone, or won the lottery or something, and he just happily decided /I quit/, and turned around to take the truck back and give notice. I think everyone’s jumping to conclusions that he’s angry about something, and that might be because of all the stories lately about how badly Amazon treats its employees. He might be saying, /Shit! Shit! Shiiiiiiiiiiit,/ or he might be saying, /Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeees!/

Scroll down to the chilling Calvin and Hobbes cartoon.

The distant future.

The distant future. The year 2000.

Clouds on Mars. I didn’t know an atmosphere as thin as the one on Mars could have clouds, but there they are. Is it possible they’re space-weather, a faintly fluorescing aurora phenomenon that the camera enhances, like the way Juanita’s phone camera pickup makes some ordinary flowers’ colors look like dayglo poster paint? On Earth, you have to go up to 120,000 feet before the air is as thin as it is near the ground on Mars, and… Oh, I see in Wikipedia there are clouds on Earth that are twice that high, they’re called noctilucent clouds, they’re /not/ aurora phenomena but made of microscopic ice crystals, and they’re only seen at twilight, lit from the side when the sky below them is dim enough. So.

And “Mary, A Ship Won’t Sink; the Day the Soup Factory Closed in Amarillo.”

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