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Self-harmers in VBS.


     “If you read the bible in reverse, it’s about the world’s population killing each other until there’s only two people left, and then the woman pukes an apple and they both get naked.” -Macaulay Culkin, D.D.

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-07-30) 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:

Lucky Strike, the cigarette with vim and pizzazz! Be a trim athletic hero, smoke Lucky Strike cigarettes!

Perry Bible Fellowship webcomic. I’d forgotten all about it. Strange and wonderful.

So it’s decided: Thor is a Jedi. The Aesir have it.

Living Olympic pictograms.

Such a beach.

Drowning doesn’t look like drowning.

Walking on the moon.

How we get balloons.

Rerun: Top-down view of juggling.

Jim Heid’s drone flyaround of Time and the Maiden wooden sculpture on top of Savings Bank in Mendocino.

“Let her be. It’s just a phase. Last week she was Tinkerbell.”

A modern interpretation of Blake’s London.

The Q continuum.


The nose nose. Also: Gawker is up again.

A history of toilets. (Apropos: In the Roger Zelazny book /Lord of Light/, on a planet colonized by Hindoos, the people are kept in a state of backward technology by the original crew of the spaceship, who control access to reincarnation into cloned bodies and have kept genetic technology only for themselves to become the Hindoo panoply of gods and goddesses over all. Whenever someone invents anything that might lead to the repressed world rising up, that person and his invention are, ahem, removed. This enforcement happens to the future science-fiction Hindoo re-inventor of the flush toilet.) (I prefer to spell it Hindoo over Hindu, to spell and say Hareem (say huh-REEM) over Harem, and to pronounce gala /guh-LAH/ rather than /GAY-luh/, /re-NAY-s’nss/ over /REN-uh-zonss/, and /ka-REEB-ee-un/ over /KEHR-uh-BEE-un/.) Sorry. Toilets. Focus:

AAACK! Three Daughters for Cathy, Daughter Two:

The bin chicken. (via b3ta)

The church of God the Giant Chicken. (via Everlasting Blort)

“I have now officially heard a song in the key of Q-Flat Minor.” This reminds me of an incident in the novella /The Ugly Sea/ by R.A. Lafferty, where an out-of-place young Jew in a salty waterfront bar incurs the wrath of the whole barful of rough seamen by speaking harshly to the crippled pretty twelve-year-old daughter of the barkeep as she persists in playing the piano badly. He says, “Stop, miss, I beg you. Stop playing. It is acutely painful.” They toss him out on his ear.

Rerun: Avner, the napkin sketch. (Bob Ross sent this link.)

Rerun: Parking help. Stay to the end.

The video CNN will play at the /real/ end of the world so you’ll know they’re not kidding.

Land of the buffalo.

Art. Fauxliage.

Memorable movie shots.

Classic paintings animated.

How to do it all. How to do every damn thing there is to do.

Art. And marriage, really. Their marriage is so sad. But look at what they did together, that he got all the credit for, not that it seems to have cheered him any.

Art. (via Everlasting Blort)

An amazing illusion. Stay for the end. (via Everlasting Blort)

Manson! (via Everlasting Blort)

Chirigota. A flock of hideous Barts at ‘Pasodoble y Cuples’ at Carnaval de Cádiz 1992. (via Everlasting Blort)

The all-new 1955 Huffy Super Radiobike.

A two-hour movie mainly about a legendary recording studio mixing board. (Craig Stehr sent this link.)

The future.

The live commentary on the video: “I’m still waiting for my pizza.” “You’re not getting it.” “I paid for it and I want it.” On one hand, it’s right there, just go pick it up. On the other hand, we’re already too close.

And, regarding the MCN Announce listserv discussion of renaming Fort Bragg (CA) after someone besides Braxton Bragg, here’s a song about a fictional character somewhat modeled on him: /Jubilation T. Cornpone/. “He weren’t nobody’s dunce.” JTC and Braxton Bragg both seem to have been a sort of hapless Southern cracker version of Harry Flashman, though without Harry’s great luck, nor his luminous wife who he unjustly thought of as his “dear brainless Elspeth.” (Until the flight by night from psychopathic Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, when he discovers, decades into his forced marriage to Elspeth, how talented she is, and what a rock she can be in adversity, and how unfair he has been, though it doesn’t interfere with his continued compulsive sexual infidelity in further stories. He knows throughout his life what a pathetic piece of work he is. That seems to be the running gag of the series: everyone who finds out what a moral and physical coward Harry Flashman really is, is soon removed from the picture almost comically by death or worse, and Flashman can go on receiving awards and medals and praise –and a statue of him on a horse– and escaping consequences. Though I think Elspeth might have known all along, too.)

This decision tree is something close to what I was thinking but way more thought-through and coherent. I’m sure you’ve seen it already. It’s everywhere, and should be.

Speaking of accomplishment. Oscar Peterson Live at Ronnie Scott’s Club, 1974 (BBC). This half-hour clip presents what’s widely considered to be the greatest piano solo ever (according to Rick Beato).

Who is she? She’s got great gams, I’ll give her that. And the rubber gloves and space frock are a hot touch. (Red is black in black and white.)

Here she is charming up a sausage snake to win the crown of Miss Universe 1955.


Awww. Still a doll at 85. Good for her.

All-of-history timeline app demo video. Which is cool, but I’ve tried to use the actual project on my computer and phone and neither seems to work, whether the adblocker is on or off. Maybe it’s something I’m doing wrong… Oh, I see, you have to manually open every category and check each checkbox to turn it all on. Still cool. Maybe there’s a control to globally do that. If you find that, let me know.

Just asking.

Looking for trouble. (via b3ta)

Rerun but in higher resolution that was available before: Weird German ballet. It’s like the inspiration for the Romeo and Juliet that Darren Nichols (Don McKellar) wanted to do in /Slings and Arrows/.

Something about the camera angle and the apparent size of his floating head, relative to the rest of him, is strange. Does it seem odd to you? Also the rubberiness of the kinescope process– it reminds me of a cross between /Thunderbirds/ Super-Marionation and the hand-and-stick puppet Topo Gigio, though I’m not sure why. Another thing: I looked this up because I read that the two main legitimate complaints, among Vietnam era helicopter pilots, about the accuracy of the film /Apocalypse Now/ were 1. Special-effects bottle rockets don’t look or fly like real rockets, and 2. Nobody played /Flight of the Valkyries/ from the tannoys. They played Johnny Rivers singing /Memphis Tennesee/.

Topo Gigio. “All the way back from It-ly.”

…Also, a nice coincidence– at the moment of my writing about Vietnam helicopters and rockets, see above, Juanita just out of the blue sent me from her break-time at work a picture she took of a drawing her coworker’s child made and left taped to a shelf or table, of helicopters and bazooka rockets and /pew, pew, pew/. My favorite part is the giraffe in a beret and cat-eye glasses bending over to glare at the three men rushing to jump off a cliff… Let me see if I can show you that here… No… Almost, but… No, that doesn’t work either… Dang. Okay, apparently today WordPress is only letting me add images to the end of a post, not here in the middle. Fine, then. Scroll down. And scroll back up again. See, in the old days you’d just take the paper loose and stick it on wherever you want it. There was wax on the back. That was the life. Until you ran out of printer’s wax at 3am. Candle wax doesn’t work; I found /that/ out.

Super Speed Guy.

Wires. (via NagOnTheLake)


Loretta Young could pull her tongue out to seven inches long. True fact.

Must be jelly ’cause jam don’t shake like that. Nor paralyze you and reel you in to digest you with powerful chemicals and leave nothing but your scaly husk.

In contrast, bubble whales. Oh, they are so cute.

If you’re old enough, you can smell these rooms, just from looking at them. They all smell like stale cigarette smoke. Everyone smoked in those days, and it soaked into everything, especially couch cloth and rugs and curtains. (via NagOnTheLake)

And it has Bill Murray in it again, though you only see his hand.

Unwritten rules.

Correlation of vaccination rates with politics.

They remind me of the Darling Mermaid Darlings in /Pushing Daisies/ but without the eye-patch.

A short horror film for dogs.

A paean to dogs. A paean! A paean!

Meet a talking cut. Not cat, cut. A talking cut.

The audacity of it. The lack of fear of consequences.

Is it my imagination, or were cigarettes fatter in those days, more substantial. Or were these people just very small people and the secret was very well kept.×1066.jpg.pagespeed.ic.GJQKjJhclM.webp

He is dead.

Why do this? That’s what I think now. When I was 15 I knew why. Now it’s just ridiculous, a huge waste of time and money and materials. Get off the lawn, ya lousy punks! And quit hitting the house with your goddamn ball! Like Kay’s mother, in the Piedmont restaurant, which is no more (Kay’s mother is also no more), dismissing space exploration as a sad waste of metal that would be better made into washing machines and car fenders and window awnings, things people actually need. “I know what you like it for,” she sneered, “The /adventure/.” I’ve told you this story before: She said she once was riding on the bus past a launch facility and, out the window, she saw a huge used-and-now-useless rocketship fuel tank just sitting there. “The /waste/ of it!” she said, “And for what? Adventure.” All the expression of contempt in the way she said it. /Adventure./

India will, India will rock you CRASH, rock you, CRASH. I love it how the person with the camera runs inside to watch from behind the window (!), where it’s safe because you’re inside now.

KNYO is next door to a bar. So, yeah. But add a dog tied to the sidewalk trashcan, barking like a barking metronome, and a biker idling his mufflerless Harley like a string of M-80s going off. And drunken laughter. And clouds of cigaret smoke pouring in through the mail slot. (That’s the pre-covid /normal/ everyone says they want the world to get back to.)




Venice. (via twitter/Pickover) (This sort of photography always reminds me that it won’t be too long before we have actual replacement eyes that we can set to see everything like this all the time, even in the dark, or to show us long-forgotten people’s names superimposed on their forehead when we bump into them in the grocery store, or to watch a movie, or read instructions for removing your own appendix with camping equipment, or to project laser dots on the floor to play with a cat or blind an attacker.)

The Big Apple in the good old days.

This puts me in mind of the ubiquitous (which means everywhere at once) Patton Oswalt insisting on refugee S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in the backup weapons base being issued their security lanyard as quickly as possible. “You need to have a lanyard.” That’s not what this red-haired woman says. I can hear her say lanyard a few times, but that’s about the only word I can make out; she’s so languid with her mouth muscles. She doesn’t seem to care if you have your lanyard or not. She doesn’t care about anything. I’ll bet she’s tired of people telling her to smile. (via b3ta)

HIPPA violation.

Ah, yeah, that’s it, baby. Take it off. And put it back on again. That’s the way I like it. Oh, yeah, good, that’s not right. Phew! Wow. Do it again, I got the money. This is the best detachable finger magic David Pescovitz has ever seen.

Rerun: Six Finger.

At no point.

Further Olympic commentary, well-captioned. (Click sound on.) (via b3ta)

And trois petits chats. Then deux. Then un.


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