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Armistice Day marks 10 years of MOTA on KNYO.


     “The Green People are street vessels used by the United Nations to prepare for a total takeover of the United States. The privately held property inside the U.S. would be internationalized, the citizens’ weapons confiscated and children gang-raped if we allow them to continue their covert operations. We have been softened for decades. The continual dumbing-down of our education system and the increasing banality of popular culture are just two trends we can trace to one sick source. That source is Welsh people. They are right out in the open. Society has become so Welsh that most people do not recognize Welshness when they step in it. Like my mother’s lawyer. Fucking Welsh bastard.” -Spider Jerusalem in Transmetropolitan (2001)

Here’s the recording of last night’s Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show on 107.7fm KNYO-LP Fort Bragg (CA), ready for you to re-enjoy:


Thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with plenty of other ones going back quite a way. And thanks to the Anderson Valley Advertiser, which always provides about an hour of each of my Friday night shows’ most locally relevant material without asking for anything in return, going back decades. And tiny bravely struggling KNYO itself. Find the hidden red donation heart there and help the station out with a substantial gift from your own heart. Or try the new iron-rich naturally healthy KNYO hot sauce, famous from approximately coast to coast. (“It’s toasted!”)

Last night’s show marked ten years of Memo of the Air on KNYO (five of them also on KMEC), after almost 15 years on KMFB, and, before that, five years of publishing Memo countywide, after edit/typesetting the Mendocino Commentary for two years. Sound effects for hundreds of plays for Mendocino Theater Company, Gloriana Opera Company, Warehouse Rep Theater, yadda yadda… Before that, two years of live radio drama (Chuck Frank, Private Op; and Cleveland, Ohio, 37th Century!) through the phone lines from the Albion Whale School to KKUP in Cupertino. Four miserable months trying to do radio at the beginning of KZYX with rotten rat bastard Sean Donovan tapdancing on my head, a month in 1985 of my little automatic phone-answering pirate station in Mendocino, in the Corners of the Mouth church tower. Oh, and two-plus years of the Radio *Free Earth 2-hour variety teevee show, recorded every Wednesday in the back room of that little pink house in Caspar and put on Friday nights on the cable in town (it was Warner Cable in those days). I have a crate of tapes of over a hundred of those teevee shows, many of which featured people who are long dead now, musicians and fishermen and artists and a large, florid preacher woman who would sit on a bar-stool and read the bible into the camera. Recording the Lark In the Morning music camp. And all the videotaped stage shows and music shows and Cynthia Frank’s Women’s Choirs and, ahem, birthdays and bar mitzvahs and Gala Grand Openings. And six months of just a deejay radio show on KMFB in 1983-84 midnight-to-6am Friday and Saturday nights, back when I was almost too shy to even speak the station I.D., that I would start with the recorded radio drama I wrote and directed at the Community School, where I learned and taught recording engineering, and recorded, among other things, kids’ bands, experimental art video, the Lark In The Morning record album for Mickie Zekely and Michael Hubbert… Klingensmith– that’s the name I was hunting for: the boy who ran the board for a lot of those Community School /Radio Free Earth/ radio shows, including Lawrence Bullock’s private detective /Joe November/. And the live radio dramas in Crown Hall and Helen Schoeni Theater, and on and on… But, in short, my latest milestone is: ten years of all night, every Friday night, eight hours and sometimes more, at KNYO, in one or the other of the places in town, or by remote from elsewhere in the great darkness, and I’m kind of proud of it.

Armistice Day, when traditionally, for the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh /month/ we bow our heads to listen to the guns’ having gone silent, and reaffirm that the Great War of a hundred years ago was in fact the War to End All Wars, being so terrible and infuriatingly stupid that the world would not ever let another one happen– and yet, of course, we did and do, all the time anymore, overlapping, never without a war, because a handful of obscenely rich people need so very much to stay rich, and their money is so persuasive to men who are clawing to be /just a little bit/ rich. And the jobs book-falsifying and screwing and pounding and welding forty-billion-dollar aircraft carriers together, that are obsolete before they’re even slid into the water and christened with champagne, let’s not forget about those.

Here’s a link to my dream journal project that I restarted a couple of years ago and have been keeping up– not like the old days but at least a post of several dreams each week. The latest post is always on top. (I have a batch of dreams from this week that I’ll proofread and post by Sunday or Monday night.)

BESIDES ALL THAT, here are some 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.

The first 14.5 billion years.

Galaxy in the 1950s.

A vibrating coin sorter. My (dead) stepbrother Craig had a football-game toy that worked on this principle. It was louder than this, and razzier.

Al White, Marine, his story in his own words. (100 min.)

Stop right there.

Shut up and dance with me.


Hammer time.

Hammer names. I had a ball peen hammer when I was a little boy. They say, “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail,” but a ball peen hammer is not like that, it’s just fun to hit dirt and rocks with and make moon-crater landscapes of scraps of wood and inscribe your name in dots on the concrete wall next to the alley. And you can’t help but smile when you say it: ball peen hammer. Try it.

A shark made of hammers, some of them of the ball peen persuasion. A hammerhead shark.

And scroll down to brainstorm/green-needle. It is a weird thing about our brains, and a good reason not to fly off the handle when someone offends you. You heard them wrong because your brain is not reliable but carries a lot of random crap around for you to punch yourself in the nose with and blame other people who have no idea what your problem is and who just want to get away now. And it’s not just you, nor is it just sounds. It happens in every aspect and facet of communication. Everybody does it. We take turns unwittingly gaslighting ourselves and each other.

Some smitement. A path of smiting.

How sound works in horror movies.

Feynman on the scientific method.

What. (via Fark),t_content-image-full-desktop@1/v1667508677/2022-11-02T232958Z_1431128580_UP1EIB21ELT3U_RTRMADP_3_GYMNASTICS-WORLD.jpg

“I had the patron saint of dads for sissies, and no, I didn’t know it at the time, but I know it now.” Don’t sneak, son. Excellent advice.

Snake dance. This reminds me of when Tyler and Ruthell Lincoln’s Symphony of the Redwoods, and, I think, Gloriana Opera Company, spent a risky $18,000 (thirty or forty thousand in today’s money) to put on /Dido and Aeneas/ in Cotton Auditorium. There was a girl in a snake-slug suit in the underworld scene that gave this very impression.

Freaks: the glass blower, the baldheaded tattooer of canvas ships, Italian mafia cigar Indian, man with dinosaur feet, Thomas Dolby beatboxing into a harmonica mic, tough, bored woman bouncer in sparkly shorts, ready to bounce you right out if you get fresh back there, mister.

Three million flamingos flaminging (say fluh-MING-ging).

Traffic moderate to heavy on the 405 to the 10. (via Fark)

How we get screws.

How we get pencils.

How we get sick.

How a universal flu vaccine might work.

Why golden retrievers are much more likely than other dogs to be fat pigs. They don’t just eat food, they spasmodically engulf it. They inhale a whole day’s food in one horking breath and go vacuuming and snarfing around the floor for more. Why? I looked it up; science is baffled. Not a clue. It’s neither genetics nor environment. All Lab-like dogs are like that. They are chow-hounds. That’s the term we in the industry use.

In all, there are 327,322 images of human faces in /Time/ magazines since 1923. And here they all are, catalogued and linked to the photographs and articles they’re from.

…which reminds me of the slow, majestic, poignant (say POIN-yent) story in the 1999 three-episode British teevee series /Shooting the Past/, about the stories of people in old photographs.

Palindromic Bob. (via AVClub)

“Pavilion that soars above the clouds.”

Low-gravity simulator exercise equipment. The man demonstrating it makes me want to scream at him to be more careful. He’s going to hit his head on the sharp corner of that pile of plywood.


A post of various intriguing sounds in Tacky Raccoons.

Visiting Henry Dagg. (via b3ta)


Park blancmange.

Each room in this seemingly ordinary house should be named for a different planet, or perhaps for the specific perversion or catalog of perversions it might be particularly suited to. (via Fark)

Too sweet. Hurts my teeth to look at it. (via Fark)

Printing a replacement foot for a duck.

Ornithopter. (via b3ta)

Collectively, Le Signorine Grandi Firme.

How different foods would walk. She should do Taco Bell and run.

Scudda Hoo! Scudda Hay! “Them as don’t work don’t eat.” This was not Marilyn Monroe’s first movie.

Popcorn on church organ and drums.

Video of octopockles throwing and spewing dirt, rocks and shells at each other, slapping at each other and getting briefly stuck together by their suction cups. “Stop it!” “/You/ stop it!” “No, /you/ stop it!” Though mostly when they act like this they’re not immaturely sparring but rather they’re octo-ladies telling masher octo-men to leave them the fuck alone and keep their junk to themselves.

Bouquets of coral. Maybe one of these would change her mind.

The book.

The pessimist’s archive. The latest technology is always the end of the world. (via BoingBoing)

No amount of prayers or magic or old wives’ tales will get you this. Only real education and real medical science.

Rerun: “What a great studio. Boy, did we have some times in this place.”

A clock made of four-inch-tall nixie tubes, not LED strips in jars but real high-voltage wires in rarefied neon gas.

“Another bag of Molly was discovered inside McMullen’s brassiere.” She seems nice. (via Fark)

Catering to the carriage trade.


Gallagher, inventor of the kitchen Sledge-O-Matic (“And don’tcha wanta know how it works!”), dead at 76.

An advertisement for alcohol. “Or against it,” said Juanita. Either way, have a hankie ready.

FOUS. I want to make one like the biggest one. Plastic drainpipe should work fine.

Edison Studios’ interpretation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. (via MentalFloss)

Look at how many there have been after that. Wow. Hundreds.

I haven’t seen even a tenth of those, but the best I saw is this one. Very faithful to the text:


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  1. Thanks very much for including my links!

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  1. Farraginous Hot Links – Tacky Raccoons

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