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Popsicle toes.


     “You can’t deny Jews control the international Rube Goldberg machine market. Wherever a bowling ball falls on a switch to a fan blowing a paint balloon onto spikes, startling a mouse that pulls a string to raise the curtain on a sign that says EAT AT JOE’S, there’s a Space Jew in a throne room somewhere, in a high collar and tight gold and purple helmet, though in black and white, watching it on a round screen on a pole, washing his hands in the air like a fly, smiling with just his mouth, not his eyes, muttering, ‘Excellent,” or “Splendid.'”

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. And/or try the new iron-rich vibrantly healthy KNYO hot sauce, for vim and pep. (“It’s toasted!”)

Here’s a link to my dream journal project that I restarted a couple of years ago and have been keeping up– not compulsively 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. It works better that way; I don’t get confused about which ones I sent to Medium and which ones I only read on the radio.) (I’d like to read /your/ dreams and I always offer to, if you’d send them.)

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.


Theda Bara Salome. Hubba-hubba. Hot-cha.

What a nice place to live. It’s like competing floating villages in an art game environment about a water planet.

Monju hunters of Sofugan Island. (9 min.)

Live Goa’uld larva Xmas ornament, perfect for that special someone on your list. (via Fark)

I don’t remember where it comes from, but at one part in a story an old Jew who’s been through absolute hell sees something like this and growls, “So the /whole world/ isn’t crazy.” I think it might have been Walter Matthau, or a man sitting next to Walter Matthau. My grandmother used to sing this song to herself sometimes when she was working. She was constantly working in her house or in the restaurant. I have no picture in my head of her ever just sitting there thinking about something, though she must have done, because I rode to Ohio in an airplane with her when I was five and all I remember of the trip was the scene outside the window my nose was stuck to.



What. (Eleven years in prison, that’s what, because she frauded a few rich people out of a few drops of their money. Meanwhile the entire Sackler family profited in the billions of dollars from mass murder, drug pushing of the worst drugs on a huge scale, and not a single one of them will even ever spend fifteen minutes in the back seat of a police car, much less be frog-marched across the lawn to it. And they all get to stay wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, too, and keep all their mansions and golf course hotels and jet airplanes and basketball-court-size sex dungeons. And the Mormon church’s multi-billion-dollar tax-free real-estate empire, and on and on, all the religions including, of course, the ones with their own cities and countries. I remember reading an article about a poor boy in prison for stealing a cookie. And a woman put in prison for five years because, to get her daughter into a slightly better school, she registered to vote in a school district a block over the line from her apartment. I’m not saying the woman in this creepy A.I.-produced squirming picture shouldn’t be punished for stealing, but start with prosecuting and pauperizing the royal long-term dynasties of world-class stealers first, how about, and people who are millionaires because of war, or because of their position in government and insider trading. (Or) Just stare back at pretty, psychopathic, hypnotic Elizabeth Holmes for awhile, until you wake up, on your feet, in a strange city, with someone asking you, “How would you like to pay for that, sir?” And you say, “Pay for what?”

Janet, Janet, Brad-Brad-Brad. Doctor Scott!


The judges of contests like this are just mean and horrible. It’s their job to say yes or no; they can say no. They don’t have be such a dick about it and roll their eyes and make fun of these people who came a long way to audition and are doing the best they can, and doing it pretty well, to me. I would say thank you for coming, and say something nice about them, and give them a treat of some kind. Chocolate covered raisins, or free tickets to a game.

Disney voice actors, including Walt Disney himself.

Kinetic mayhem. (via TackyRaccoons)

Bach into Down Hearted Blues.

Waaah-eeya-ee-aahh, eeeyooo-eeeyohhhhh. Here’s a skill. Two and sometimes three different notes at once.


Minions washing and recoating a telescope mirror. Note: they don’t use the tail of their shirt. They use the special cloth that comes with the mirror.

Fire one million.

All the prisons in the U.S., seen from the air. Spread out all over this great land of the free and home of the brave is a giant, expensive, and still growing gulag fungus, that’s like one of those adhesive traps that people with zero empathy put on the floor so mice get stuck there and suffer in tighter and tighter captivity until they succumb. You know who should be put in places like that? Rich people who don’t pay their fair share of taxes, and who profit from the misery of poor people and people in prison especially. See above.

DUST: Recycling Man.

Sand-powered acrobat.

2001: a remix.

First-person toy roller coaster ride.

Pulse-jet model plane engines. Apparently they’re hard to start, but once started, away they go.


“Color. It’s just… better.” (Or) “Without color, it ain’t blood!” (Or) “Well, there’s your problem, Tom. This is completely shot. I think we’re looking at replacing the whole unit.”


Rerun: Trapped in the web of love. (via NagOnTheLake)

Our universe narrated by Morgan Freeman.

Mawaan: Are you checking me out, or are you just a racist.

The story of the last Hiroshima survivor. There are moments in this that will kick you in the chest.


Rerun: Beef.


Echoes by Pink Floyd, illustrated by A.I. (15 min.)

The first version of /Twisted/ that I heard was Joni Mitchell’s. Annie Ross wrote it, and here’s that, though I still like Joni Mitchell’s better. What do you think?

Elderly Joni Mitchell and Elton John sit there talking about Joni Mitchell’s music. This is pretty good, though it’s sad how her health has deteriorated. (25 min.) (via PerfectForRoquefortCheese)

French comic acrobats in the prime of their lives.

Dave Chapelle’s SNL opening monologue last week.

The LinkSys Unifiller Cake-O-Matic 1000 with patented Swing-Away Tray Table!

Divorce as objects in a house.

Tip your head 45-degress to the left, see the panda-catdog-otter-baby emerging from a wormhole through spacetime. Just look at for a bit. You’ll see it. (via Fark)

A relatively local road luge race. Ryan Farmer wins. The others can hock their luges. Or stand on them. When I was in third grade our neighborhood was a long steep hill. There were lots more kids around in those days, traveling in wild packs, and a rite of passage was to stay on a skateboard all the way down that hill, which was hard because the road was bumpy and skateboard wheels were tiny and hard and loud, and the merest pebble would stop the thing and yank it out from under you and your feet with it. I still have marks on my arms and legs from that. No helmets, of course; that was the before-time. Most cars didn’t even have seatbelts, or if they did, they lived stuffed in the crack between the couch bottom of the car-wide front seat and the back of it, which came up to just below a grownup’s shoulders, so if a car hit you from behind, your entire head was liable to pop right off like a ketchup cork.

“I can’t believe this is what F. Scott Fitzgerald’s hair looked like. No one ever talks about it.” (via Everlasting Blort)

A baby star burping.

And what do you suppose is going on here, for 50,000 uma pulu ribu ruvics? (via Fark)



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  1. I love your lineups! “I would say thank you for coming, and say something nice about them, and give them a treat of some kind. Chocolate covered raisins, or free tickets to a game.” Just brilliant. You should come write my blog for me…

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