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Just a two days’ dream journal post this time.

Allow me to repeat: I’ve been keeping my dream journal again and reading it on the radio during MOTA. I’ve been on-and-off sending my dreams to the MCN Announce email listserv, but some people get the Digest version, and posts longer than a paragraph or two clutter up their entire trip, so it occurred to me to just put it here in my weblog and send only a link there. It worked fine last time, so. If you want me to read your dream journal entry, or anything else you write, aloud on KNYO-LP Fort Bragg (CA), my email address is in About And Contact, above; just send me your work and that’s what I’ll do. I usually read the dream journal section later on in the show, meaning after 3am but if you want me to read your work at a time of your choosing (the show is 9pm to 5am every Friday night), say so and I’ll try to comply. Thanks!


Mic cables. Event.

My dreams from Monday, 2020-12-07:

First dream. I’m walking on a bleak-feeling, remote, high-desert-like version of Albion Ridge Road. I turn down the driveway to my employer Tim’s place. It’s all rustic but well-kept up, like a camp in a state park in the past or future but not now. Here’s my dream-only car, the powder-blue Oldsmobile my mother had in the early 1960s. The trunk has been open all night since I left it here in the back-story of the dream. Standing up in the trunk is the green bicycle I had in high school. There’s a microphone wire splitter like a cat-o-nine-tails. Someone is to my left but I don’t look there; I’m interested in how the trunk is not growing but is somehow bigger all the time until it’s the size of a house porch with the lid as a porch awning, and there’s a wall-to-wall tangle of long mic wires filling the space with the bike still standing up on top. (I just realized this image is like the back of the geophone cable truck of the company I worked for in Wyoming and Colorado for a short while in 1979.)

I go to the cluster of little buildings (the office, library, Ethel’s house). Madeline, who used to be a bookkeeper here, is sitting outside the office, her back to me, at the center of a long table of not financial books but regular books (hard and softbound, all different sizes).

I’m supposed to work on something here but I don’t know what. Ethel’s house is open to the air, with louvers and porous, colored fiberglass panels. People are talking inside. I stand on the step and knock. A strange blonde woman comes out to tell me something or give me something. I back away into the driveway, having forgot to wear my mask. Madeline’s daughter Caitlin, who I last saw in real life in the early 1990s when she was fourteen or fifteen, comes out of Ethel’s house and slinks away between the buildings, hiding her face, comically embarrassed at not being young anymore but more like in her forties now and shaped like a bag of clothes. I feel sorry for her feeling like that, but what can I do?

Next dream. I’m walking on a rural two-lane highway. I dither a bit about leaving the highway, but decide not to pass by visiting my old dream-only high school on their open-house graduation festival day. I’ll look around everywhere and refresh the memory with everything the right size and distance, to tell stories about it better.

I’m in the high school, where I’m reliving when I taught there (this starts vague but clears up) and showed a future-movie-star girl how, when running from an attacker from the pool, wet-barefoot on the tile-floor corridor, to put her hands up to hit the doorjamb and use her hands and arms to stop, to turn into the room and get weapons or phone for police instead of slip-crashing into the doorjamb and being hurt and even more vulnerable to the attacker guy. She’s here, grown up now, Italian-looking, long straight black hair shot through with gray. I take off my shoes, step in the water to wet my feet, run in and down the hall (carefully and slowly because I’m old), put up my hands to stop myself at the door. She says thanks, for teaching her how to do that so long ago: it didn’t necessarily save her life but it helped.

We go to a room where present-day high school kids are sitting around making cutting and taping cardboard together to make props for the graduation pageant. I think one of the boys here is the woman’s son.

I go back out, around the corner, up a hallway as big as an airport concourse, to where a marching-band parade crosses. This is just before the convention-hall-size cafeteria where they’re already bringing out the food: hundreds of big pepperoni pizzas, and cardboard-and-wax-paper serving trays of piles of hot meat: fat steaks cut open to show how juicy and red they are inside. I get a doubled paper plate of French fries practically swimming in fryer oil (I can excuse it because of the scale of the event), and I get /two/ steaks. I’m really looking forward to this; I can’t remember the last time I had a real steak. I’m ready to eat with my hands but here are open boxes of plastic knives and forks.

It’s crowded. When I find a place to sit at a bench, a wiry little gray-burr-haircut man calls out, “Marco!” and he sits next to me but facing outward with his back against the table. In the /way/-back-story of the dream, years ago in the house where I lived on Highway 20 I let him and his older, bigger-than-him girlfriend and her deprived hillbilly kids stay for two weeks, sleeping in the main room, and then I didn’t actively participate in getting the man arrested but did side with the woman and didn’t help him, because I’d come to understand he was a serial criminal fuckup who dragged others into trouble with him and would not reform, and also he hit her at least once. At the table now he’s philosophical about it. He’s not angry at all. He’s happy to see me. He’s not a criminal anymore.

Except, darn it, he is. He was just involved in one last crime before he’s about to escape the South American country where all this is happening. It feels like a Gabriel Garcia Marquez story.

The dream ends with a song very close to /Mame/, of English-translated Morse code radioing out to the freighter/passenger/rescue ship of the failed little man’s old friend captain to /not/ stop for him but just pass by outside the harbor because the man screwed up again after all this time and got caught up in his old criminal ways.

I got up and went in the kitchen and was humming it. It turned out, /Mame/ is one of the many songs from Juanita’s childhood that she still knows all the words to.

Here’s /Mame/ to give you an idea of the sound of the little criminal man’s radio song. Mentally insert Morse code beeps and change the lyrics to mean the new story you know now.


Sex. Mission to Pluto. Woodwind flute. Ceremony. Missed connection. The big pipe.

My dreams from Tuesday, 2020-12-08:

First dream. A rare dream of sex with Juanita. Just like real life but muffled in all aspects. No story to it.

Next dream. An Asian version of Juanita’s and my friend Jason is one of three or four of us on another planet at night. A menacing alien silvery-smoky-white translucent living robot creature modeled on a long lizard, with a deadpan human face etched on the glass underside of its triangular head, has been ordered or programmed to hunt and destroy us. I have the idea to lure it into the house from outside through the downstairs (downhill) laundry room/mudroom. Asian Jason is our weapons and fighting specialist; he goes down there, pulls the door shut after him, there’s some thumping and bumping, and he comes back up carrying the creature, which is now immobilized with heavy bent metal pins impaling its hips/hipbones and the hipbone-like flanges at the bottom of its head (the cheeks of the etched-on face).

I’m relieved. I was afraid he’d kill it. But we’re still in danger. There’s a pall of danger over everything.

Next dream. I’ve been negotiating about job or the price of something in a department store in a closed-in, snowed-in Midwestern shopping mall. Later, at the entire other end of the mall, in a big supermarket, where the checkout counters for all the stores are (and the exit doors into a wall of snow), I put the end part of a flute (but dark wood not metal, and belled like a clarinet, down for the clerk to see or scan, as if this part is the check stub to collect the rest of the instrument, but it’s just what it is and I don’t have my receipt. Juanita’s with me. We confer about how to proceed: Go back to the other end of the store, miles away, to the girl I bought it from? Or did I buy it /for/ her? And will the rest of it be there? or what?

Next dream. A future-hippie-era San Francisco-like bay waterfront place. I travel along the street, a little back and to the right of the subject I’m documenting: a musician/historian on his publicity tour/stunt to take a handful of guitar picks to to other end of the street. He stops there at the mouth of a river, turns and goes back, gathering a crowd of followers as he goes. (It’s working. I didn’t think it would.) He walks on a thirty-foot-long single-plank footbridge over a swampy place to the center support and continues down a second plank to the other side.

At a place like where you used to go out onto the dock to watch the KFOG fireworks show, he looks out at the bay as if standing respectfully for a flag song. Everyone else stands still too. I imagine, instead of this, playing /All Right Now/ over the rooftops on electric guitar at top volume. Everyone would like that better than just standing here. There’d be a street party. But no, that’s not his vision of the event. It’s his show; let him do it how he wants to do it. /All Right Now/ would really work, though. It’s dead easy to play. Two chords.

Next dream. A Southern gentleman alien supernatural spy character like from a comic book is fascinated by a flattish-headed catlike blonde woman who lives in a hotel under the Bay Bridge (close to the dock of the previous dream). I step into the action as the man and, instead of the way he’d show off his magic powers, I /don’t/ demonstrate that I can fly, but rather just make arrangements with the woman’s suspicious jealous butler to meet her later. After a dream jump-cut past the early part of the relationship, the woman and I get separated and I end up waiting around in the street on the water-side of her long thin house (that’s like my grandparents’ restaurant when I was little). We must have gone right past each other. There are no phones here. I go in the back way and it’s another building entirely. This is not the same world. Oh, well.

Next dream. I wake up from sleep in the dream on top of a small utility trailer made of pipes and sheet metal. I’m in the middle of the intersection of what I think of as Bank of America Street and Crown Hall Street in Mendocino, but it’s a strange version of Mendocino. There’s a fenced-off deep excavation for a park project where the Mendocino Hotel additions and the water tower should be. I pick up the tongue of the trailer and push to parallel-park it against the fence and leave the tongue in a shrub to make it all look less prominent so no-one steals it. I open the top of the trailer to make sure I’m not leaving anything valuable or important, and the inside is full of lawn waste and open putrid bags of garbage crawling with wet flying termites that billow up into the air, into my face. I slam the lid shut, slap at the air, run back out into the street. The bugs fly-squirming around me and away have left yellow slime on my arm and my neck and my t-shirt front.

At least I’m dressed. And I have my wallet and various cards. I can find out how much money’s in my debit card by buying something /like a bath in the hot tub place/ (if it’s where it’s supposed to be).

The wallet becomes a big manila envelope with papers and forms and things in it besides the cards and some money, and receipts and notes to myself; I’m here for an investigation. I hire a hippie-ish but serious-seeming local as a guide, who finds me a metalworker to cut open the end of the hockey-stick-shaped park swing pipe I suddenly have. But the metal man’s job is loading people on an amusement park ride that goes underground about where Alphonse’s bookstore used to be. It’s okay, just let him get these people on this next bunch of cars and he’ll take a look at it, no problem.

He brings out a cutting torch on hoses, lights it and is about to start cutting off the six-inch shiny stainless steel end of this otherwise yellow-painted heavy iron pipe. I say, “I changed my mind. I’m sorry. Stop. I’ll pay you for your time.” I give him five dollars from the envelope. He insists on my taking one dollar back and says a cheerful smart aphorism that I didn’t get to keep.

Now I’ve acquired a second local helper man. We all go up into an dark, claustrophobic old apartment building to try the clue address I have. I remember the previous time I went this way (?), when the woman who answered the door was like the blonde girl in the /Oasis/ episode of /Star Trek Enterprise/ where everyone else in their village, except her father, turned out to be holographic artificial people created so she wouldn’t grow up lonely– but I knock on the door and it’s someone else. A blonde woman, yes, but not that one, and she’s nervous of all these people standing around. I tell the others to go downstairs and wait, give me some space.

I woke up about to ask the woman if she recognized me at all, knowing she’d say no but not shut the door.

Ho, ro, the missile-o, the missile in the si-lo!

     “I have never seen a beer or wine or other alcohol company use a drunk person in their ads. Are they embarrassed by us?”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-04) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.


From a very short way into the show and lasting forty-five amazing minutes is Doug Nunn’s, Ken Krause’s and Marshall Warner’s Snap Sessions project /Hey! The Irish Persons: the Disappearance of a Storied Folk Group./ It’s made of Hit and Run Theater material going all the way back to /forty years ago/ when this baker’s dozen of talented people were just starting out and the world was their oyster, except for the months with an R in them. It makes me think of the film /A Mighty Wind/, which you’d enjoy, not least because of Parker Posey, who I have a picture of in my wallet, that Juanita knows about, it’s not a problem.

Besides all that, and because you’re back in quarantine, here’s an extra-large pack of links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right. (They recently changed how WordPress works, so I’m experimenting this time with not bothering to painstakingly make all the links open in a separate tab. You’ll have to press the back button to come back here. If you don’t like it this way –or if you’re reading this as an email because you’re subscribed, and it shows up all weird, which, I don’t know, it might happen–  please let me know so I can take steps.

Overture fire.

Death in marbles.

Wednesday was the 36th anniversary of the 1984 poison-gas negligent mass-homicide of an entire city in India by the Union-Carbide corporation. The death estimate varies between 3,800 to 16,000, because when everyone in town is occupied going blind, coughing up their lungs and drowning in their own erupting bodily fluids, no-one’s going around counting each other, exactly, and afterward there’s the problem of /what do we do with all these stinking corpses of poor people?/ Bulldoze them into trenches, funny you should ask. In all, 600,000 people were poisoned. Here’s the story of how it all came about in a chain of dominoes, each domino representing another point of appalling thoughtlessness on the part of Union Carbide (now Dow Chemical) who still hasn’t made it right to the survivors, many of whom had good cause to envy the dead. (1 hour)

Understanding the Beirut blast, a much briefer, arguably more humane yet similarly negligent disaster.

Woman yelling at cat in art through the ages. (via BoingBoing)

Blue. (When I think of blue, I see the color, but when I see the word blue by itself I hear the seven-note warble of Joni Mitchell saying it at the beginning of her song /Blue/. Of course, if it’s within a sentence there’s no time for that.)

Rerun: “Because we rollerskated today we will go to college tomorrow.”


Hot glue web shooter. This is so great.

That explains it.

This [fill in blank] does not exist.

Beautiful world.

One-man theremin-saw duo.

“The sight of a dead dog floating on the surface nearby was a very welcome sight to Ransonnet as it proved to him that there were no sharks to be feared.”

Six years old and she can sing like a bird and bar an F at the same time. Imagine what she’ll sound like in just a few years if stardom doesn’t wreck her with drugs and tattoos.

1. I looked up the whole series of MiuMiu’s work and was especially laugh/smiling appreciatively at one of them when I realized the dang meatballs were burning in the pan. The apartment was filled with smoke. Son of a bitch. 2. Meatballs burned on one side can be salvaged with Valentina sauce or, if you’re out of that, ketchup and cayenne pepper. From son of a bitch to pretty good, just like that. It’s like barbecue. 3. I left the windows closed against the cold and expected the HEPA filter, so useful during California red-sun fire weeks of this epoch, to clear it up so the pet bird wouldn’t choke, speaking of choking, see above, and in half an hour it was fine. When Juanita got home from work I asked her if she smelled anything odd in here and she said no, why? That filter was ten dollars at the thrift store I don’t even /remember/ how many years ago, it’s been running all that time, and every couple of months I take the cover off and vacuum away the felt-like blanket of dust that develops on the charcoal-plastic outer ring. Last summer the downstairs neighbor said something about the 60Hz humming through the floor bothering her, so I got a package of foam sponges from the dollar store to make vibration-absorbing feet for it and now it’s whisper quiet; I can’t even hear it from the bed, and you can only hear it on the radio if I turn my microphone all the way up. Make and model: Honeywell Enviracaire (250 cubic feet per minute). Five stars, and two thumbs up, except in Middle Eastern countries where that’s an enraging sex and/or hygeine insult, worse than touching your thumb with your index finger, which, here in the West, used to be what they called /the high sign/, meaning /okay! or well done!/ but now means /white power/ because the other fingers make the W of /white/ and the finger and thumb make the P, so don’t do that either. Don’t do anything. Just keep your mouth shut, arms slack at your sides, tremble as imperceptibly as you can, avoid eye contact and try not to fart and you’ll get through this.

Doreen Ketchens, queen of the clarinet.

I get that the thing dangling from the ceiling is decorative swirl of some sort, but what is that thing on the table? Is it supposed to be an art snake?

A watch with mechanical birds to silently chime the time.

Photographs that accidentally look like Renaissance art. (via NagOnTheLake)

Nothing is changing about the size or position of the rotating wheels. They’re not moving around; they’re not getting bigger or smaller. The only thing that’s changing is the arrows in their centers. Put your thumb on the screen to cover the arrows and you’ll see.

With that illusion in mind, in analogous news which bears repeating: The stock market is not the economy. It’s a parasitical casino, like Biff’s casino in /Back to the Future II/. The casino is apparently doing swell, the surrounding community is a bleak hellscape, and somehow without access to fantasy time travel we need to repair the timeline.

Here are some old clips of James Randi (R.I.P.) gently humiliating psychic mind readers, aura feelers, speakers-with-the-dead, dowsers, etc. by allowing them to attempt their tricks under conditions where they can’t cheat. Unless psychics can cheat, their trick can’t work. For decades the well-publicized offer stood of /a million dollars/ to anyone who could honestly demonstrate any psychic or supernatural power at all, and there were plenty of people who tried. Prince Hal, here, for example, though he was only going for $10,000.

Understanding additive synthesizers. (via b3ta) (15 min.)

They gave a picture of a pretty girl fresh out of the shower to Photoshop artists all over the world and said, “Make this one beautiful in your country.” Some of them came out looking like Star Trek space aliens. (One even has Trill spots across the chest.) The U.S. one looks like 1980s Teen Prostitute Barbie. The Phillippines one seems familiar, and I’m trying to think of why. Ah! They’ve lowered her forehead by sticking on hair from a random Clairol box, painted cut-yourself-if-you’re-not-careful cheekbones and added enough spray eye makeup to convert her into Jennifer Garner at the very beginning of the process of morphing into a raccoon or perhaps a badger. I /knew/ I’d seen that somewhere before. “And just where do /you/ think you’re going, young lady, all tarted up like that?” “Let her have her fun, Patrick-Michael. She’s only young once… You go on, darlin’, have a good toim. Call us to come get you if you get too pissed to be sexually responsible.”

Descriptive lyrics to /Belle/.

Australian Star Wars fan flick.

Where the U.S. hides its shipping secrets, and why half the cargo ships on Earth are registered in Liberia.

Mama mia! she says. (You have to click on View and you might also have to click the sound on.) (via Everlasting Blort)


These people play glass harp and a guy joined their band who has a theremin. This is the exact opposite of when the obnoxious bongo guy joined Flight of the Conchords.


The sigil engine. (via BoingBoing)

Get the funk on. (via b3ta)

Tracy Newman plays Cripple Creek on the banjo.

“It’s a Tokyo basketball, it’s an Oslo basketball, it’s a Rio de Janeiro basketball.”

“Elmore Jang’s got nothin’ on /this/ fonky.”


Nice truck. The sign they tied the rope to says /Dumping Prohibited/. And their trash turned out to contain paperwork with names and addresses. Oy.

An hour over sea places of Norway.

Juanita showed me this:

…And this:

I really like this message: Your creative and musical heroes all once sucked just as hard as you do. It is inspiring. Practice and progress.

It’s like it’s saying /Do me! Do me!/

Doom? Why so? (via NagOnTheLake)

Photos of the damage. They’re not going to fix it. It’s over.

…Can you watch recordings of it finally catastrophically failing and read all about it? Sure. Here:

All about asteroid strikes. “The thing that most closely resembles a meteorite impact is a very large nuclear explosion.”

The coin.

The magic fishbone.

Hell of a year. Bottomless scroll of photos.

Journey of beef.

The two little pigs.

His old flame.

This reminds me of a standup comic guy Hit and Run Theater brought to Crown Hall once who made fun of Ronald Reagan being too stupid to even feel pain when he was shot. The comic said, “Even a /paramecium/ knows when it’s been /hurt/.” (The would-be assassin used a very small-caliber gun and Reagan always wore a bulletproof vest under his suit coat when in transit. The early 1980s weren’t that far away from the late 1960s. The Kennedys (J. and R.) and MLK and all were still fresh in everyone’s mind.)

Each of the devices in this carefully-arranged heap has some important part of it that works on an electrical principle Nikola Tesla discovered and/or popularized. (via EverlastingBlort)

This isn’t an audition. This is the man they hired, doing his job.

Whoa, Saint Theresa, higher than the moon.

The drunk guy who decides packaging. (via b3ta)

Who likes to rock the party? New /Zealand/ likes to rock the party.

It’s a comic strip, but it’s an actual real-life event.

…As is this.

…And this.

…And this. I can’t stand this. LOOKATTHEROAD! LOOKATTHEROAD! LOOKATTHEROAD! It’s bad enough when in a movie or teevee show the driver turns to speak intently to the passenger, eye to eye, while the car continues at speed. This is ten times as bad as that. This is /crazy/.

And this full wide-open beaver moon.

Musical notation.×1152/skynews-wildlife-photographer_5189980.jpg

Evocation of Stravinski. (via b3ta)

Inverted fire tornado.

Native American folklore.

Brap! (via the Anderson Valley Advertiser)

Long exposure drone photography.

Rerun: It’s beginning to look a lot like Fish Men.

This is the guitar-playing musical-machinery afficionado who they called on the phone to make a video about /Eric Clapton’s/ old strat that they were set to auction off, and after he did, and like four million people watched it, they sold a $200 guitar for $1.5 million. Here he is favorably reviewing a copy of Jack White’s steampunkish octave stomp box. (I still have my Electro-Harmonix Micro-Synthesizer analog stomp box from the early 1980s. One of its effects is similar to this. Chris Diurni used it in the then-Mendocino Community School recording studio to embellish Charles Tyler’s song /Strange Fish/. It sounds like a dinosaur screaming.)

Wish fulfillment.

Another car crash compilation.

Brother and sister play Back in Black.

And if you have some time left over, or you wake up in the middle of the night and feel antsy, here (via BitsAndPieces):

Three days’ dream journal post.

I’ve been keeping my dream journal again and reading it on the radio during MOTA. I’ve been on-and-off sending my dreams to the MCN Announce listserv, but some people get the Digest version, and posts longer than a paragraph or two clutter up their entire trip, so it occurred to me to just put it here in my weblog and send only a link there. I’ll try it this way, and if it feels right I’ll do it again sometime. If you want me to read your dream journal entry, or anything else you write, aloud on KNYO-LP Fort Bragg (CA), my email address is in About And Contact, above; just send me your work and that’s what I’ll do. I usually read the dream journal section later on in the show, but if you want me to read your work at a time of your choosing (the show is 9pm to 5am every Friday night), say so and I’ll try to comply. Thanks!


Vehicles. Maker space lights. Sleazy convention/office motel.

My dreams from Monday, 2020-11-30:

First dream. At the end of a story I didn’t get to keep, I’m driving a small old Toyota like the one I had in the early-middle 1980s, south on Lansing in Mendocino and out to the highway on Main. Somehow after I get on the highway my old landlord Michael is with me, and he’s quiet and content, unencumbered by issues, unlike the way I remember him in real life (often snippy, with a surprising temper). The highway is narrower and twistier and more up and down as the car gets weaker and weaker, so that at last the road is only five or six feet wide (still with a line down the center), the car is a motorcycle, Michael and I are walking and I’m pushing the motorcycle (light as a bicycle) uphill around a curve to the right and through a curtain of hanging willow tree fronds. The road curves left and downhill again, becomes a long shallow flight of concrete stairs down to Van Damme park. Get back on and ride down the stairs? or keep walking?

Next dream. In the middle of a strange blocky version of Fort Bragg (CA) I’m in kind of a maker space, maybe at work, in a poorly lit big room of rows of white formica electronics repair benches. Stephen Greenwood from Mendocino Theater Company gives me a full-length full-height circuit card like from a middle-1980s IBM PC, and a smaller square one that my task is to connect to the end of the big board with a zipper of jumper wires, and here’s the roll of wire to make the jumpers out of. In the bundle is also a sharp fat pen thing that might be a cordless soldering iron or a logic probe tool.

A delivery person stumbles in from outside with boxes and accidentally bump-switches off the last few overhead fluorescent lights. I go to a panel of horizontal breakers by the door, try them all, one at a time. Some just turn a humming sound on and off from deep in the building. I get the lights back on better than before, more of the ceiling tubes, less like a person with Indian-corn teeth.

Now I’m carrying around my things and a small table lamp I found, trying to find a place to plug in and set up that isn’t either being worked at or saved for someone. There are A-folded cards reserving places. I hear a cafeteria somewhere; that’s where those people are.

Later I’m lying in bed in a room at the end of a street to the north of the lab. An unfamiliar thick-forehead frizzy-gray-haired girl is clambering over and clinging to and kissing me. A nurse is doing paperwork at an office desk by the storefront window. Some people sit on waiting room benches, some go in and out of a back double-door. I should get out of here; I don’t even know who the girl is. I feel like I’m supposed to be helping in here and it shouldn’t even look like I’m taking advantage of the patients. I get out of bed –/I’ll be right back, just a minute, don’t get up/– and I walk and then lope away into a now even more blocky, pastel-paint, artist-colony place than before, that I remember, within the dream, having dreamed about often, years ago. It’s like a real-life town on the coast, I don’t know whether it was north or south of L.A., that my mother took me to a few of times when I was little, when she was a real estate agent. There were fenced yards of ceramic plant pots and yard statues for sale, painting-framing stores, a building with rental surfboards the size of canoes leaning against the front.

Next dream. I’m in San Francisco in a docks-feeling place but not near the water, returning to a rented meeting room for, I don’t know, family counseling? couples therapy? a business team building exercise? As I walk under scaffolding, other people’s used chewing gum builds up on the soles of my shoes and I have to keep stopping to scrape it off on a pipe or on the curb.

Here’s the motel and the way in. I go upstairs. I’m the one with the key to the room, but some others are already inside. Let them start whatever everyone’s here for and I’ll figure it out from context. (Just like I often feel in real life.)

Time has passed. I’m driving some others in an unfamiliar car uphill through a pre-COVID realistically busy horrible San Francisco, where I just absolutely hate to drive. All the lanes are thick with cars all tailgating, all dangerously jockeying to shave ten seconds off their trip. The car goes slower and slower uphill; I find a place to get off the street and bump down into a construction lot that’s probably not right to park in. It’s not my car anyway. I don’t know whose car it is. I just walk away from it, walk the rest of the way to the meeting motel. I’m barefoot now, the sidewalk gum sticks to my feet.

Another group using the motel is a 1950s white gangster role-play convention. As I go upstairs a three-foot-tall gangster comes down. He’s like Joe Pesci in /Goodfellas/. I flatten myself against the wall and apologize for being in his way, sir.

This time I go into a different room, where apparently you go to have a tooth fixed. A clever-looking woman I’m involved with in the dream is here with me. You climb onto a wide five-foot-high shelf along the long inner wall of the room, and they come along and give you a plastic cup with purple-gray powder in it, a cup of water to mix in, and a fat contraceptive-foam applicator to spread the result to pre-numb the area. The mixture becomes like gritty shaving foam and expands out of the cup. I don’t want to shave, but I get that you’re supposed to, to avoid infection. I spread the foam all over the right side of my face. I don’t even know what tooth they’ll be working on. Nothing hurt, even before the shaving cream. I should just leave.

The man doctor and a woman assistant come in. I say, “I’m gonna put this off and come back another time.” They’re like, /Ha ha ha, that’s what they all say./ I appeal to the woman I came in with (?), but she sides with them, like /Just get it over with./ No. I climb down. Can I get a towel, please? Or a paper towel? It might be too late. I might already be drugged. /All the more reason to get away./

I woke up with the song /Heart-Shaped Box/ playing in my head. Not the /eat your cancer/ part, but the /Hey! Hey! I got a new complaint!/ part. I’ve always wondered about that song, having got the impression that the man was singing to an ex-girlfriend that he’d had a fight with, who died of cancer and could no longer hear him bitching at her… But, here, from SongFacts:

According to the book /Come As You Are/ by Michael Azerrad, the idea of the song came from Courtney Love when she presented Kurt with a heart-shaped box full of precious possessions (such as a doll’s head). The song switches meanings between Kurt’s feelings over Courtney and his feelings on how women are treated.

After Lana Del Rey did a gentle rendition of this song at a 2012 concert in Australia, Courtney Love gave her take on the song. In a series of quickly deleted Tweets, she wrote: “@LanaDelRey you do know the song is about my vagina right? Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back umm. On top of which some of the lyrics about my vagina I contributed.”

So. Nobody has to wonder about anything anymore. I read that there are still fanatics of Kurt Cobain who blame Courtney Love for Kurt’s suicide, which is nuts; she and her child are clearly the victims, though she and her daughter inherited $115 million. My entire experience of Courtney Love was a transcription of a radio interview about her band I read in the New Yorker, where she was pissed off that there wasn’t any coffee in the whole radio station, you’d think they’d have coffee in a New York radio station at nine in the morning, somebody said there’d be coffee here, I don’t care, fuck, just send somebody out for coffee, and a Rolling Stone Magazine story about the court case of how she was ripped off for hundreds of thousands of dollars by a scheming manager/asistant who she had unwisely trusted because she was her friend. Her punk band named Hole did pretty well and were fine for a punk band. She plays the electric guitar and sings. And she won film awards for her acting. I saw her in /Man on the Moon/, about genius comic Andy Kaufman; she plays his girlfriend who seemed to be good for him. She was in /Tideland/ by Terry Gilliam, but her character was dying or dead of a drug overdose in the opening scene. Her innocent daughter and drug-addicted husband were discussing how they would proceed from here; the man prepared to set the apartment on fire like a Viking funeral but the little girl stopped him. You know who the greatest child actor in the world was? The little girl in /Tideland/ (2005), Jodelle Micah Ferland, who twelve years later played a believably fifteen-year-old girl named Five in all episodes of the science fiction teevee series /Dark Matter/, and she played a snotty, selfish, arrogant child queen of a whole planet in Stargate Atlantis. Also a great child actor: the little Romanian girl with her arm up in a cast in Tarsem Singh’s /The Fall/ (2006), named Catinca Untaru. In her scenes, mostly in the hospital room with Lee Pace, she was just reacting naturally to Lee’s lines and to the story he told, and it worked perfectly. I love that film because we see her misunderstanding of his story acted out; the actress, like the character, could only faintly understand English. And then he has to trick her into stealing morphine so he can kill himself. (He’s a movie stunt man in 1916 who was crippled by overreacting to seeing his girlfriend screwing the director, so he doesn’t want to live.) Don’t worry, I’m not telling you how it turns out. It is a beautiful film from start to finish.


Trick war. Absconding from slavery. Trash can world.

My dreams from Tuesday, 2020-12-01:

First dream. I’m in a disorganized, sparse war, either fleeing pursuit or pursuing enemies around a lake in a U-shaped valley. A helicopter comes, picks me and my friends up. I take over flying the helicopter from a position sitting with one butt cheek on the edge of a flat-top toilet in the middle of the pushed-forward bubble nose.

We get to a court of long two-story government buildings. One of the soldiers here is a member of a group who have the superpower of persuasion. He wants to shoot me. I open my mind to him so he can trust me, and I order him to find the others and disperse throughout the command center nodes to wait for further instructions. He’s suspicious because what if /I/ have that power and I just tricked him? but he runs back inside to do it. Things become vague…

There’s a small-scale invasion in a rural community. Everything in the town is on the side of a shallow hill. Translucent alien octopus/bug/smoke-things infect ordinary people to give them strength and invulnerability and incidentally take them over. I’m shooting and shooting at the (infected) enemy general guy, with a gun that never runs out of shots, shooting him specifically in the eyes, over and over, and he keeps coming at us. There are people everywhere shooting and screaming and running around. It feels like I’ve been through this exact event before, maybe several times, and we won last time, so keep fighting, don’t run away now. There’s no sense of real danger. Maybe it’s an immersive game. /Maybe the persuasive group person brainwashed /me/ and I’ve been captured./

Next dream. Post-apocalyptic work camp. I’m on a fruit-picking crew, or a land-clearing crew. It’s early morning and we’re all in a line to get food. The boss guy shows up. I leave the line and tell him about an empty field that I saw yesterday? when? over /there/. I point past the worker shacks. He arrogantly knows about all the fields and where they are.

I’ve been working like this for I don’t know how long and have trouble figuring out what year it is –1998? 2002? It seems like just a day or two ago I had hopes for the future, could just go off to another college adventure any time. I had a car… In my memory, in the dream, I’ve been working outside in the sun with a crew of other exploited young people under older guys just like this boss person, with an unseen big gang boss somewhere else…

I won’t do it anymore; I and another (boy? girl?) walk away, faking that we have another job to go to. And now I’m alone, wandering in wrecked, grown-over farmland. I find a horse shed to hide in. Out the open front of the shed is an endless expanse of trees that are crowded close together but bare down under the branches canopy so you can see a long way. I’d like to walk out there. Later, after I sleep for awhile.

Next dream. I’m in a city of intact apartment towers but with rubble-strewn streets below. I look down from a room about six floors up. A big housecat walks on a path, limping on a hurt foot. An old man dressed in rags, shoveling debris aside like shoveling snow, looks around furtively, straightens up with the shovel and starts to sidle away with it. He’s quickly surrounded by younger men who get the shovel away from him, moving like, /Come on, Paul, you know that stays here./ He’s like, /Oh, sure, yeah./ (Like Jane in /Firefly/ where he forgets to give the captain the change back from going to get ammunition.) (There are lots of similarities between /Dark Matter/, see above, and /Firefly/.)

Now I’m in an East Coast dirty pointless city, in a ground floor apartment. I’m in my twenties. Other young people come and go. Somehow I get a job playing an ancient reel-to-reel tape and figuring something important out about it. I tell the other person with me (the person who I left the work camp with in the previous dream, still not 100-percent boy or a girl but more of a boy now) that I’m just going to take a shower and then I’ll help him get started with /his/ work. (He’s fearful of being abandoned.) A table-model phone, off the hook under a chair, begins to honk; I wonder how long whoever was on the other end was listening before it began to honk, and did I say anything incriminating?

So where’s the bathroom? Here’s a little bathroom next to the front door. No shower, but a plexiglass art plinth with a glowing blue pushbutton near the top. What does it do? Push it and find out. Nothing. The toilet turns out to be a small white wastebasket with wet gravel in it. There’s oil-wet cat-litter gravel on the floor. These idiots must come in the front door drunk and just piss and spill used oil here. Is my name the name on the lease or are we all equal squatters? Can I just kick them all out?

I woke up with the Steeleye Span song /Cam Ye O’er Frae France/ playing in my head.


MRRRRRR! Hypnotic touch devil guy.

My dreams from Wednesday, 2020-12-02:

First dream. It’s dim. I’m on the side of a muddy hill, where a four-inch thick slab of hard mud has somehow split off and curled upward. I’m on a science/crime? expedition. Others are farther up the hill. It’s time to leave. I have to go around the low side of the mud slab to get to where I can go up, and the slab /slaps downward/ on my shoulder and side. The mud underfoot is slippery. I slip a little, drop whatever I was carrying and scramble with my hands and feet, as the farther down I slip the steeper it gets.

I fall all the way to flat wet sand, face down, facing left. My head is against the rock bottom of the hill. The ocean is loud behind me, I can’t move to look how close. I need to get up and get at least a little way back up the hill before a big freezing cold wave comes, but my arms and legs are as trapped as my head is by my position. Two tall dead people made of seaweed or shredded canvas wiggle on their own, moving more than just from the surf wind, sitting up leaning against the hill right next to my head. I’m shaking, trying to move, trying to scream for help, but can only go /MRRRR! MRRRRRR!/

Juanita was still home, getting ready to go to work. She heard me in trouble and came and woke me up. She said it took a long time to wake me up. (I was lying mostly face-down on my crossed arms, same as in the dream, which explains the straitjacket experience coupled with the sleep paralysis episode.)

Asleep again, next dream. Cool but not cold wet woods, the way everything always used to be cool and wet in Mendocino and Albion. My employer Tim has a dream-only long narrow cabin on a ridge but still under wet trees. He tells me to measure for the parts I need and go to the city (Santa Rosa or San Francisco) to get them, to rebuild the back of his woodstove, but in a certain particular way: the pipe out of the stove must come from the bottom of the back of the stove, not the top, it must be cast thick iron, like a municipal water service pipe elbow, and the chimney pipe must be Metalbestos double-wall all the way down into that.

Some nebulous time thing happens so I’ve already gone and got the parts. They’re not exactly right, but I stick everything together anyway, and Tim is not Tim anymore but has been hypnotized by magic to be evil to others and self destructive and contagious in this. A cross between the Man-of-Steel-era Superman and Ray from /Legends of Tomorrow/ becomes the new Tim and, in the parking lot out the front door of the cabin, in the dark, he wants to protect me by fighting the devil Tim, the contagiously destructive one. I’m like, “No. You can’t fight him. Don’t let him touch you!” (Because that will take /him/ over.) But he’s confident in his power and he won’t listen to me; he runs to fight him.

I did what I could and it wasn’t enough. Albion is doomed. I go back inside to try to stop the next part of the devil Tim’s plan, because all the first part has gone his way.

Tim/Superman-person is already in here, laughing smugly about how he touched the woodstove and set it like an alarm clock to set the house on fire. A strange girl with flappy ears who lives slightly down one side of the ridge (?) comes in. I shout to her to go call the fire department, more to get her out and away from the devil than to get the fire department; they won’t be able to help here.

Tim/Superman vanishes but keeps chuckling annoyingly like a stoned teenager. I kick the back off the woodstove to run back and forth from the sink to throw cups and bowls of water into it, but the L-shape of the disconnected chimney pipe, now single-wall again, gets hotter and hotter anyway, glowing red. I throw water into the end of that.

From a position in a trellis on or in the roof I watch the Albion/Little River Fire Department people run in from the trees-end of the cabin. There’s chaotic forward-and-backward-in-time activity that settles down in a morning with no damage at all to the house, the fire people never having come here, except Jamie, and Superman/devil, no longer Tim at all, waiting, amused, invisible except to me while I try to explain in logical terms, so Jamie won’t think I’m crazy, why no amount of water can put out the embers in the now completely disassembled woodstove. Here’s how I say it: “You know how you can put two of the right chemicals together and they react and make heat? But there was a time when nobody knew what those chemicals were, to do that. This is like a magical new chemical that you can’t do anything about yet.” He’s thinking about this. I’m spilling water into the stove parts anyway. Problem is, the fire only looks like it’s going out. It’s not going out. As soon as Jamie goes away and it’s convenient for the evil character it’ll flare up again and everyone will think /I’m/ the one doing it. Still, there’s a feeling of relief that the house didn’t burn down.

Next dream. Caspar (CA) is spread out, or rather stretched out, with the houses even farther apart than in real life. A farmer and his wife live in a house like the set of a play Mendocino Theater Company did maybe fifteen or twenty years ago, that Donovan Holtz wrote, a soap opera about a writer living with his girlfriend on an island in Alaska when his ex-wife shows up. The devil character from the previous dream, but more of a person in a sheet/ghost/Scream-facemask costume here, declares that he’s going to take the man’s wife and that the man has no say in this.

Having had some recent experience with this devil character, see above, I take over for the man and [confusing jump-cut] so the devil/ghost character is now at the bottom of the hill, corner of Caspar Street and Caspar Road, with the man’s wife invisibly far away up the road, safe for the moment, but the devil guy starts walking there, determined.

I head him off at the highway and I’m trying to figure out how to fight him without touching him. Orion Burdick, who was in plays for all the local theater companies for awhile and then moved away, is driving by with his pork-pie-hatted friend in a boxy middle-1960s car. He thinks the devil guy and I are hitchhicking; he pulls over, turns around in a loop and stops. I shout to Orion, “Do you trust me! Get going! Don’t let him touch the car!” Orion is like Superman in the previous dream; he doesn’t understand the danger. He just sits there smiling, waiting for us to get in. The devil guy smirks, /This is too easy./

At least the farmer’s wife got away.

I woke up with Heart-Shaped Box playing in my head again.

A Thorgellenische pölka.

     “See my tailor. He’s called Simon. I know it’s going to fit.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-11-27) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.


Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right:

Thorgellen, by Alex Bosworth.

Hard to describe besides to just say Lawrence Welk welcomes a guest hot to dance the polka. She makes me think a little of Mark McKinney’s The Chicken Lady, especially when her head explodes.

The claw thing, for example. Everyone hates that.

Art. (via Clifford Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

A change. Incredible kids.

Busy houseplants. (via NagOnTheLake)


“Enjoy the music before we let personality Ed Robinson explain.”

Prison art. (via BoingBoing)

How we get all this food to be thankful to Imaginary Sky Friend for. Hint: a hidden dystopian underclass of slaves.

Best real-life superhero suit ever.*ooxpyNNsQGmlOh6v

Am I the only one who this reminds of Zorg in /The Fifth Element/, when he’s talking on the phone with the Evil Asteroid and black blood, or whatever it is, begins to flow down his face?

Stan Lee on language.

It adds to this for me that he looks like Harry Dean Stanton while he makes those funny sounds.

Two movies that go together great: Lucky, with Harry Dean Stanton (his last film), and The Man Who Killed Hitler and then the Bigfoot, with Sam Elliot. And they do in the same way as The Illusionist and The Prestige go together. Juanita once told me a story about how rabbits and cats, despite being not really genetically close, are very similar in many ways, as though someone had given a couple of lab groups general instructions for constructing the creature but told one group to make it a prey animal and the other group to make a predator; same skeleton, same basic structure, general appearance, size, texture. We had some friends a long time ago, Laurie and Michael, who drove around making a living playing harp together in Irish pubs, and they had a pet rabbit who lived in their motor home with them. Divorced from the wild it behaved exactly like a pet cat: used a litter box, snuggled on your lap, stretched, perched on a chair back, ran around the place at 3am, licked itself, slept in a sunbeam in the day, when there was a sunbeam. Some pairs of movies you just enjoy more, seeing them together, drawing parallels between them as well as thinking of them fondly in the same mental breath ever after. Don’t bother telling me I’ve written this near-exact same paragraph a dozen times before. I know. I don’t care. I like to.

A Thorgellenische Polka.

Speaking of which, I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself with the ax. That’s how your hurt yourself, doing it like that.

“Holy Krampus, I’m late.” I can enjoy this, and the one before, from context, though I’ve never seen a so-called holiday Hallmark movie. Hallmark produced a pretty good teevee series once that I saw all of. It was called Picket Fences, and it felt a little like the brilliant series Northern Exposure. I think the same people even made it.

The Jödenpflügel Brothers.

Beautiful trailer for a worthwhile new teevee series.

The time the former very last /Soviet/ Russian leader made a teevee ad for Pizza Hut.


“Wow, you are right.”

Okay, Pop, now you’re just showing off.

Fun with sugar.

And… a fountain! Trickle… trickle… trickle.

Rose Marie singing like Durante.

I love the title b3ta put on the tail end of this: “I don’t think that’s how you do a mic drop.” (The man calling the anti-mask protester on her bullshit of comparing herself to an anti-Nazi martyr is a security guard quitting his job because he’s full up to here with these people.)

This is how you drop the mic.

Methane. (via EverlastingBlort)

When we all can have spaceships the control console on mine will look like this.

How to make a traditional pantyhose turkey.

The Night Mayor.

Hup! Heep! they say.

I can think of good reason after good reason why a woman might finally snap and do something like this, and I’m sure you can too, where no jury in the world would convict her.

How to remove a cracked phone screen protector sheet. (First make sure it’s just the protector that’s cracked and not the screen itself. You might want to leave well enough alone.)

Understanding computers.

This guy spent 11 years making this impressively byzantine line rider video. I was gonna say, /All other line rider video makers can go sit down,/ but really the simpler ones have charm too.

An interactive site that shows which indigenous people’s land was stolen from them by cutting off of hands to whipping to starving to Trails of Tears to full-on genocide for you specifically to enjoy the use of. You just give it your street address. It even lists the treaties involved in your area that kosherized the process.

Rerun: Wednesday’s Thanksgiving.

Cooking in a trash fire.

Flappers flapping where no-one has flapped before.

“He forgot the apostrophe!”

Woodturning a goblet with a captive ring.

Jupiter flyover.

Masks. (via EverlastingBlort)

Fun with poems.

A little help.

It sounds like /Oy-y’yoy!/ that my Polish-Lithuanian grandmother used to say, but I think he’s saying something else. Everything about a military tank is an obscenely expensive waste, so I don’t feel all that bad when one gets stuck on its back clawing at the sky screaming like a turtle.

The mine is played out. They’re moving the massive excavator machine to where the boss wants it. It doesn’t roll, it walks.

Slowly turn around on Mars. Think long-term. Send out a few thousand self-replicating robot tractor ships to steer ice asteroids to crash into this place, seed it with micro life, come back in a few million years and you’ve got something.

Landslide blog. (via TYWKIWDBI)

How to write the different things there are to write.

Early Bjork. Before she was really full-on Bjork.

Minnesota: Land of 10,000 latkes. Alaska: Please don’t fuck our bears. (The big ass water tower is in Gaffney, South Carolina.)

Movie trailer: She wants to be a hero. In a parallel world, she is. It looks fun.

Let’s all smoke Chesterfield. Smoother, cooler, /best for you!/ Doctors agree.

Guy makes music out of Paula White, lunatic spiritual adviser to Donald Trump.

Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain – Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll. (Cakes and buns and sausage rolls.)

Rerun: “Okay, everybody, hump-tiptoe past the mirror and flap like a turkey.” Though I’d never seen this version of it before. I saw the one where he pretends to be a teacher and the women dancers are all dressed in Italian/Japanese schoolgirl outfits like children in a Studio Ghibli film.

Charles B plays the fastest banjo solos but on bass guitar. He often makes half-fun of himself as a kind of bass snob, but he has a real right to be a bass snob. He’s terrific.

“Peanuts are the devil’s toes.”

Healthful Admiral Cigarets for everybody.

Here’s just one fifteen-minute episode of a series about antique vehicles. In the series they don’t always drive the vehicle around but they always start it.

Winners of contest to make prom clothes out of colored duct tape. My favorite is Emily’s fire-feather gown. How did she not win?

And a visualization of old modem sounds. I know, because of keming your eye saw modern sounds. I still hear these sounds every day when it’s an Albion week. I sit with a small electric heater on my knees, dial up to read my email, maybe type my dreams, drink my Mason jar of green tea, read a few trusted and/or funny news service websites in text-only mode, which works fine at 26.4 kbaud, shut off the things, take a shower or not, get dressed in my heavy winter clothes and slouch off to work. Oh– and brush my teeth; I forgot to say that. What’s your morning routine?

p.s. If you want me to read on the radio something that you’ve written, just email it to me and that’s what I’ll do on the very next Memo of the Air. That’s what I’m here for.

Like crap through a goose, so go the days of our lives.

     “The real author of the theft of the diamonds and the assassination of the soldiers who escorted the convoy, committed on the night of January 22, 1826, is therefore not Joam Dacosta, unjustly condemned to death; it’s me, the miserable employee of the Diamond District Administration; yes, only me, who signs my real name, Ortega.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-11-20) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

Oh, and there haven’t been any complaints about this way to hear the recording, though it seems to be a toss-up whether it shows up as a widget or just a regular link, depending on what you’re reading this with and/or through:


Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

So many birds. It’s almost a liquid. You’d see this a lot in the California Central Valley in the old days, from the back seat of your stepfather’s Ford Galaxy 500, on Highway 99.

At some point you might have stubbornly declared that you wouldn’t [fill in blank] /for all the flamingos in Kazakhstan./ Well, here they are; take a look. It might change your mind. And if we ever run out of geese, it wouldn’t be too hard with a little breeding or genetic fiddling to replace them with flamingos. They’re very similar both mentally and physically. They even sound the same. They’re only pink because of a special bacteria in the food they like to eat, so they can be any color you choose except plaid.

Fabulous chickens. (via Neatorama)

Landscape photography.

I am Oz, the great and powerful, up on your sunroof, making your scenes.

Why to never ride in a car with your feet up on the dashboard, at a glance.

Maskless Trump supporter sneezes at the MAGA march.

“These people are hurting.”

Abandoned America. (via EverlastingBlort)

A wonderful ad to check your boobs.

Aww. Oh, the poor thing.

Master of so-called ugly guitar tunings.

How we get tubs.

Cotton candy pro.

Celtic knots.

This reminds me of the old Mendocino Community School. There was a girl named Midnight who could sing like this. Rain Equine could sing like this too. And drummers and bass players, and keyboardists. The music practice room was right in the middle of the school, and it was just a plywood shack, so you really couldn’t get away from it if you even wanted to. Antonia’s son James used the electronics lab to build an FM transmitter into his electric guitar so he could sit on the steps going up to the regular high school and hear what he was playing from the amplifier turned up to eleven all the way across the place. Talented kids, talented oddball teachers, amazing place, amazing time. Now this is these kids’ amazing place and amazing time:

Why to play simply. (via b3ta)

Iron Claw the Pirate. (85 min.)

A hovercraft port, with sound, 24 hours a day. It’s especially cool at night (there, Isle of Wight). (via b3ta)


Life and size. Useful information.

What a sitcom looks like without the laugh track. It’s like the Garfield Minus Garfield project.

A conversation with his schizoaffective friend. (via b3ta)


If ever a photo.

Okay, here’s how to live. Right here. (via

Randy Rainbow’s latest triumph.


Sunflower jazz.

How we get drumsticks.

1975 S&H Green Stamps catalog. (via EverlastingBlort) In 1968 in Fresno we got a whole pingpong table, paddles and a box of balls and everything, with stamps, but I think it was the Blue stamps, not the Green stamps.



     “I always thought the shit would go down when I was young and strong. These days I’m just hoping I won’t spend my old age picking through the ruins of my city looking for expired canned food.” -Hari Kunzru

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-11-13) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

I didn’t know this way was available, but if this works for you –let me know if it doesn’t– I’ll do it like this in future, though it seems to throw the layout off in an odd way in Firefox. Maybe it’s just my machine:


Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

They play Swan Lake, that this Alzheimer’s-suffering nonresponsive wheelchair-bound ballerina used to dance to, and it switches something on inside her. Her hands float up, her head tilts, while the video editor shows you, in split-screen, film of this very woman sixty or seventy years ago on stage, young, in her power, dancing, up on her toes, her arms out and head tilted the same way to the same passage. Past the weeping, it reminds me of an old science-fiction story from the 1940s about a great dancer in the future who is old and damaged and scientists give her a powerful, flexible robotic body to move into. Wouldn’t that be nice. Or like in /Altered Carbon/, where the hospital people are all indolent and slow because why even bother to fix up a totaled body when you can just take them out of it and put them in a fresh one like changing into new pants. Or a new shirt, actually; they call bodies sleeves. The ongoing person of you lives in a pocketwatch-size thing stuck in the back of the body’s neck. If you’re not rich, though, and your child’s body is wrecked, you have to save up and rent a body for her, to spend time with her on a special holiday, otherwise her watch is in storage. And, again, if you’re not rich, you don’t get much of a choice about what body you get, just whatever’s available, that some other poor person will rent out because they’re poor too, just like real life now, in a way, except for the replacement business.

Good dog.

Adieu, toodle-oo and good day. (via b3ta)


In case of overmedication.

He’s brilliant at this. I remember Hit and Run Theater people used to do an improv game like this in the early 1980s. Doug Nunn, Steve Weingarten, Kathy O’Grady, Harry Rothman, Ellen Callas, Pamela Stoneham, Tracy Burns. They could do it all night, just off the top of their head. They’re still doing it; there was just a Zoom show a little earlier tonight. Here’s what they looked like back in the day, when the world was in black and white. Oh, and here’s Diego J. Rivas:

Electric wingsuits.

Speedflying. Too low. AAAAH! Look out! And he spins upside-down… This is more nut-retracting than watching drones crazily careen around. If a drone clips a rock it’s just a broken drone, not a smashed and dead body.

For years, people kept crashing trucks into this bridge by being ten inches or a foot too tall. So they hired an engineering firm to tell them how to fix it, and the answer apparently was to spend a fortune to raise the bridge by only eight inches, perhaps on the theory that the show must go on, which as you can see it does.

What. (via Fark)×1000/media/img/photo/2020/11/photos-scenes-new-zealand/a14_487144676/original.jpg

120-year-old brightly colored photographs.

The man who invented Scooby-Doo is dead. Ruh-roh! *feet scrabbling on marimba sound*  And he would have got away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for those meddling kids, including the warbly one with a beard made of five hairs. And the little round librarian one. I don’t remember who the other two were. Was one of them a French girl in a beret?

African reporting on U.S. the way U.S. reports on Africa.

Lava lamp of birds.

Get your JZD Slušovice TNS GC today. It’s as at-home bookkeeping a fourteen-cow dairy operation as it is pointing a planetarium to highlight Sirius.

Closet lunatic.

Happy street.

Rerun: Glass beach of Vladivostok. Like the old one in Fort Bragg (CA).


First-line generator. There are other generators here. Try them all again and again.

You don’t really get enough of a sample in fractions of a second to compare their sound quality, and the distortion is turned all the way up anyway, but it’s kind of cool, just as a montage.

This, on the other hand, shows you what you need to know if you’re considering buying a fancy bass guitar. I think the Fenders have it, hands down, and it’s because of the pickups. The Rickenbacker doesn’t get a fair shake, though. Its tinkle-toy edge sounds like an impedance mismatch that might be solved with a different direct box or amplifier.

The Empty Chair, by Sye Allen. (via b3ta)

Nobody is normal. A great lesson.

Using the springiness of magnets for a slingshot.

Depending on your video parts and browser, this might work anywhere from great to not at all. Try it.

An article about steps. Much more interesting than you’d think. It’s the same statuesque woman with the thing stuck in the side of her nose who did the earlier article about Edwardian electrical hazards.

Rerun: Banana republics.

“Lemme ask you something. How do you kiss underwater without bubbles coming out your nose and mouth and everywhere?”

Using a helicopter to lift one of the three antennas up a /one-thousand-foot-tall/ antenna tower so the men hanging on strings up there can bolt it down with hand tools.

Right-wing outrage songified. From the (Autotune The News) Gregory Brothers.

A dog with long ears. This is what you’ll see from now on.

“Birds don’t understand glass. Really, they don’t.” (via BitsAndPieces)

Optical. (via Bit&Pieces)

How to remove ham from a disk drive. “Let me explain the science behind this.”

Okay if you like cactus.

As SNL sketches go, this wasn’t a big hit with the audience, and I’m not sure why, because I like it fine. Jesus visits Sally Field to ask her to not pray quite so much. This reminds me of the great but equally-not-well-received film /The Invention of Lying/, as well as the fine film they made a few years ago of Philip Pullman’s /The Golden Compass/.

Here’s a guy who made friends with the raccoons by giving them grapes
and hotdogs. They love him, but one day he’ll go out there without a
grape or a hotdog and we’ll see.

Speaking of raccoons, here’s Alex Bosworth reading his story /Chip Chip Chaw/ in 1995. He illustrated and animated it, as he did many of his stories, with crayons and butcher paper and VHS tape.

We got pie. We got Co-Cola.

Sprite lightning.

Dr. Seuss’ surrealistic work. If you already know the basic Dr. Seuss story, play the video and skip ahead to 4:40. That’s where the actual surrealistic work is.

Star Trek: Acid Party. (via b3ta)

A fascinating stroboscopic montage of human-made things down through the ages.

Head-stabilized video of a hurdler, his stabilized head inflating in perspective as he looms nearer and nearer.

Where hedges come from. They start them out miles long, cut them up in section to ship them out. Like a post hole farm of old well shafts, but horizontal.×984/media/img/photo/2020/11/photos-scenes-new-zealand/a25_636242677/original.jpg

Old photos colorized. Many pages to page through.

And they’re all so surprised and frantic. What did they think was gonna happen? That’s what the idiot light shaped like a cartoon bomb on the tach is there to tell you.

Rue nigh.

     “Failure. Is that right? Has my life just been one big failure? I mean, maybe I never quite lived up to my early promise as a math genius but that’s because I was waiting. For the alien to collect his eye and change my life.” -Eugene

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-11-06) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

I think you’ll like this particular show. It hangs together in a way that they don’t always. You know what they say about hanging together. Also there’s an Alex Bosworth story you haven’t heard before. You like that. Here, look, it’s an airplane, open your mouth.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Pinball explained and shown in slow motion. (Via BoingBoing.) I’ve skipped you ahead to the interesting parts. All you really need to know is, electrical j-box knockout slugs don’t work, because a clever magnet pulls them out of the coin path, to be collected inside the bottom of the machine. (Coins ignore a magnet. Try it and see.) My stepbrother Craig, who took his own life with a pistol forty years ago, could win free games on any pinball table and play until the arcade closed, on a single coin, which in those pre-magnet-trick days /could/ be a slug. He was a real-life pinball wizard. Just a cute, skinny, Irish-looking kid with freckles across his button nose, and phenomenal hand-eye coordination for sports as well as pinball. He’d be 65 now and probably king of the world. Alcohol was involved. And why isn’t there a slogan for that? /Don’t drink and kill yourself./ Hmm. /Don’t self-medicate for suicide by the thing that makes you depressed in the first place./ No. /Guns, as stupid an idea as drinking./ Okay, enough. Anyway, pinball games, how they work:

This is kind of like a pinball game. Here’s a man playing piano for tips out on the street in Barcelona, and a kinetic riot develops around and past him –nothing to do with him, just right place, right time– with explosions and danger and police vehicles and bemused remarks and everything; he’s in the eye of the storm just calmly playing the piano, and his little audience appreciates it. Which person in the video do you identify with, and why?

At the same time, this is also me. (Besides the person I chose from the previous one.) I’m the dog /and/ the person. I startle and/or gaslight my own damn self.

To everything. There is a season.

Careening around L.A. like an afreet frantically searching for his master’s lost magical object. (via NagOnTheLake)


Photographic art.

How to clean your taxidermy. No need to put it off any longer. Come on, it’s time.

What could have been.

What always happens.

The common threat.

The paleofantastic trombone squid. Trombone is French for paper clip, and you can easily see why.

One, and two, and kick, kick. That’s it.

Donald Trump’s tax-salaried spiritual adviser hears the sound of victory. She hears the sound of victory. She hears the sound of striking the ground. Akka bakka furundiga frakka suh-kakka ba-blakka fluhcogh gagoch. The heavenly angels are coming from Africa. The angels are coming from South America… (You might have to click the sound on.)

And an artificial intelligence analyzes paintings, describes them and comments elliptically on them. Example: “A large sculpture hangs on the ground with a spray painted on walls or imagine there is a pile of metal sculpture with several birds on it. I once observed two birds having sex on top of a roof covered in tile.” The machine gets all that from seeing an amorphous blue, brown and pink smudge. It’s goofy and impressive and, just like that, there go another few thousand jobs to automation. Next, wine and food columns, financial advice, landscaping, property management. Then cable tech support. Then Skynet.

Why no airlock? There’s a pretty good reason.

Zappa documentary. I’m in!

Gregory Alan Isakov – Time Will Tell.

Lilies of the pond. (via NagOnTheLake)

Conservatives outraged.

Infinity mirror guitar. For the short of attention span, skip ahead to 6 or 8 minutes in.

I’d like to play that. I don’t think it’s a real thing, but why isn’t it? People would buy that. It seems like it would be trivial for a game writer to make this as an app for a phone or tablet, and it could have as many colors as you choose. Go ahead, make a million dollars and then cut me a check for whatever you think is fair for setting you on that path.

Beautiful dreamlike drone flight.

Huygens spacecraft landing on Titan.

Bad-dream-like zoetropic sculpture.

Cyriak Harris says, “So, I had a heart attack the other day. It was horrible. Don’t ever have a heart attack. If you want to know what one feels like, imagine an elephant standing on your chest until the pain spreads up through your jaws like you have toothache in all your teeth at the same time.” (Here are samples of some of Cyriak’s queasily fascinating animation work, each one like a dream you might have when you’re sick and have a fever, just before the fever breaks. Click to choose.)


How we get modern bowling balls.

Black Safari. (Full film, 67 min.)

I love it when she takes them off and the cat instantly goes, “Oh, okay, then.”


“You haven’t got any improvement in these 3 years. What a pity, you come for death.” I like the leaping and spinning in the air. And Michelle Yeoh. She’s a Vulcan doll. She can really do that stuff, too. She does all her own stunts, like Tom Cruise, Summer Glau, Buster Keaton, Keanu Reeves, a handful of others. And like them she’s been badly injured several times.

All the way from Medina of Marakesh to the Tapioca Highlands, including a forbidden (cursed) view of sacred Uluru from above, where you are committing unconscionable racism by even looking at /pixels/ of it.

I’m not sure why this is so funny to me, but it might be that that kind of electric heater is the crappiest kind of all; it basically has to heat all the air in the room before you feel warm. The kind they should send are the cheaper, easier to make kind that shine warmth directly at you. But at least they’re /doing something/, and they’re young, attractive, talented, happy and having fun. I’m not criticizing them; I envy them.

Here, electric heaters from a hundred years ago. Beautiful functional art. And you can make toast on them. They look like art deco microphones and steampunk spaceship ray guns. I have an eighty-plus-year-old G.E. Focalypse parabolic heater, that worked great the whole time I had it probably fourth- or fifth- or twelvth-hand, and only last year it corroded to the point of not being able to repair it. It wasn’t just that they made things better in those days, it was that things were simple, not much to go wrong in them. The gas kitchen stove I just installed in my employer’s rental unit /has a computer in it/. So if the electricity goes off in a storm you can’t even cook hot chocolate on it by lighting it with a match. On the plus side, you can’t pull a Sylvia Plath, have a bad day and deliberately gas yourself to death. Unless the computer properly lights the oven and feels that it’s lit, the gas can’t stay on more than a brief puff. You’ll have to find some other way to off yourself. And, regarding electric heaters, from a physics standpoint, a plug-in electric heater is the most efficient machine possible. All waste heat of operation, including any ticking or buzzing sound it might make, is heat that you want anyway.

Journalism. “News reporting is a young man’s job, for the reporter must have stamina and endurance to withstand the strain of long and strenuous hours of work. He must have the courage and perseverance to /get the story/ in spite of obstacles.” And, “If you don’t like to write, you won’t be happy in journalism.” It’s good that they tell you all that right up front. You don’t want to find it out later, when you’re poised to /blow the lid off this lousy town/ and it’s just too much trouble, your muscles are string beans and noodles and you can barely lift your arms to place your indolent fingers over the write-o-matic keyboard and push down a few times. Underdogs and ordinary Joes and Josephines are counting on you. Crooked City Hall mob bosses are getting away with arson and murder, and pawn shop horse-track blacklight massage fortune-teller jukebox drug den slime is boiling up out of the sewers like a Boy Scout Jamboree science hall vinegar and baking soda volcano, oh, just shove over, I’ll do it.



Art. (via DarkRoastedBlend)

This is the way everyone should quit.

This sounds like a neat teevee show. The hero is a brave librarian, doing what librarians do when Earth has been invaded from the stars.

Not too long ago now-President Biden said, “A lot of Black people are behind an 8-ball.”

The girl in the front row is really into it.

About hydrodynamic bearings.

This man seems to have unlimited money to buy and try out musical instruments and equipment, in this case to his exact specifications. He’s a very good guitar player, and this is an interesting guitar with a startling feature. If you just want to hear what it sounds like, skip ahead to 8:30.

Gorgeous flying.

Rerun: this train. (via TYWKIWDBI)

“You’re like a big dirty raccoon, David.”

What’s inside.

Racist zombies. (via TYWKIWDBI)

A dramatic gas station in Volgograd seen from miles away. (via TYWKIWDBI) Every gas station in the world is capable of this furious beauty. There are /500,000/ gas stations in the world. That this one fulfilled its artistic promise is an esthetically valid point of view.

And, “That is what we have been told we are. It’s an extremely crude and limited conception of one’s self.” –Alan Watts.

Proud and free.

I modified this /I voted/ sticker with, from a LWV photograph, matching the curve, lighting gradient and uneven blur. I’m a little out of practice of messing with images; it took me ten minutes.

And Juanita saw it, tisk-tisked and made this from a clean flat image, using Irfanview, in about the time it took me to type this sentence:

I said, “How /do/ you sing so high?” She said, “I’m a /girl/.”

Mr. Mischief Night.

     “Here’s what’s happening: Someone keeps going back in time to fix 2020 by changing something, but every time they do it just makes it worse.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-30) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

This person is the pumpkin carver from now on. Everyone else can go sit down.

Costume contest.

Halloween is cancelled. Wear a mask anyway.

I like these creatures. (via EverlastingBlort)

Shivery creepy. Especially when she drinks right out of the milk. With her mouth.

Mr. Mischief Night.

Shanghai Disneyland Pirates of the Caribbean ride-through video. “Raise the fleet!” Somehow this all reminded me of the very last Star Wars movie. Hmm.

Speaking of which: /Wonderboy/, by Tenacious D.

Australian Aboriginal choir Spinifex Gum sings Tom Waits’ /Make It Rain/.

Tom Waits interview on Letterman in 2004, /then/ TomWaits’ /Make It Rain/.

A single-seat car –a rail-car– that gets the equivalent of 12,000 miles per gallon. All the experimental vehicles in this contest use less power to go forward than just the headlights of a regular car do to merely light up.

Rerun: Cyriak– dancing (and blossoming and fractally-multiplying) skeletons.

Dobby Sommer sent me this.


Kurzgesacht on geoengineering.

German band of session musicians covers /Dark Side of the Moon/ live.

Guitar all of chrome-plated heavy steel, including the neck and the tuning-peg head: even the frets are welded on! Making of, edited down to eight minutes. (When the electric welding starts at 1:36 it’s startlingly loud.)

And Ethel Smith on the tiny but mighty Hammond organ. You kids don’t know, but it wasn’t that long ago that every shopping center used to have an organ store full of organs of all sizes for sale, and there’d be someone like this woman, or a man in church clothes (suit and tie), playing just like this on the organ in the entryway, to draw people in. Pizza places had an organ and somebody to play it; some of them had a kind of clockwork or electrical or vacuum-operated mechanism to play it, to pull the keys down while you watched, or while you sat at it and pretended to be the one playing it. Churches, of course. I don’t remember banks having one, but that would’ve been a great idea, and still would be, if people still went in banks. Mark Scaramella of the Anderson Valley Advertiser worked his way through college playing an organ for intermissions in a giant movie theater, on a platform that would rise up on a hydraulic lift out of the stage in front of the curtains that would shut over the screen and then go back down when the curtains pulled aside and the movie started again. People had an organ in their house, in the living room or basement or den. Some people had two or three. Organs were a big deal for a long time, and then they just weren’t anymore. Why, I wonder. What ruined it? /And where did they all go?/

How to use the toilet in space, in case you ever have to.

If you love me.

Big vaj energy. (via b3ta) This reminds me of an old seaman’s song that went something like, “Pull up the sheets, me hearties, swab the decks with brine. Bend to the oars, ye lousy whores, for none is bigger than mine.” I think it was called /The Three Whores of Winnipeg/, but I can’t find that anywhere. There’s /Winnipeg Whore/, but that’s not the song. I guess nobody famous enough ever recorded it, so.

Slide show of The Onion’s look at 188 trimesters of reproductive rights in America.

The entire Trump presidency edited down to 68 minutes by Vic Berger.

Time coke.

The curse.


“Man, you’re a blonde goblin. You’re a busted scooter at the dump.”

Juanita sent this. It’s a puppet painter.

Saw that coming.

Bruce Laks sent this. Nelly McKay (say muh-KAI).

Everything Nellie McKay does is golden. Here she is in 2004. So languidly sarcastic. She rhymes golden retrieverish with Leave It To Beaverish.

And on Halloween in 2007. She and Maria Bamford and British comic actress Sally Phillips (of /Smack the Pony/) and even Parker Posey all merge together in my mind. They have the same kind of edge.



Turn the playback speed up to 2x.

1.25-billion-pixel image of the Milky Way.

Okay, one, don’t call your mother /Dude/.

So did she vote twice?

What. (via Fark)

Dam it. (via NagOnTheLake)

Be your own boss. You don’t /have/ to paint your fingernails gold, but it couldn’t hurt.

Viola is dead.

Tiny and colorful. (via EverlastingBlort)

Ad for Indian snack food.

Hat’s a luck.

The barrel and rug event.

How they go.

“Luckily he landed on his bottom. This happens every year. Parents need to be careful.” (It’s not just the toy fireworks, it’s the collected explosive gas in the tubes that does the work.) (via b3ta)

International Sweethearts of Rhythm. (via EverlastingBlort)

And the Bengsons.

And the Bengsons and their friends.

This is why we can’t have nice things.

     “臨時ニュースを申し上げます. ゴジラが銀座方面に向かっています. 大至急避難してください.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-23) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit.

Franklin Street again, because of having to stay on the coast for work. But not entertaining in-studio visitors. I’d love to, and we could sit far apart but, speaking of work, my day job has me around health-risk danger-age people and I’d rather not be a conduit for killing them. And I do like spooky COVID-and-depression-boarded-up downtown Fort Bragg, though I faintly miss all the years the bar next door was running and I’d be reading along and be startled/amused by drunks barking drunken barks of laughter and swearing comically vilely at each other out front, occasionally bouncing their antagonist’s head off the window or the doorjamb to make whatever point it occurred to them to make, and gunning their motorcycle motor /BROOMM! BRROOMMM!/ to signal to potential mates how big and fat and powerful they are and insinuate what generous and high-quality organ donors they will become sometime soon, perhaps that very night, out on the highway, which was even in the wee hours a river of colorful vehicles in those churning times of pointless frantic futile economic ferment. Now they’re drinking and opiating and mething and masturbating and so on in relative private. There are points for and against.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

A gallery of day o’ de dead art. (via EverlastingBlort)

Rescue timing.

Casual improv Trump impersonator’s latest selfie stroll.

“One night I was dreaming I was a scorpion, a scorpion happy with itself and doing what it pleased…”


Weather photography awards. (via NagOnTheLake)

Tour of Bennu.

Radio Birdman – Hand of Law. Strong music. These kids should be way more famous than they are.

Video feedback. We used to do something like this at the Community School in the early 1980s. But this man has devised a clever adjustable apparatus to manipulate the, uh, flow.

Algorithm generates whole ’90s music festivals for you.

Swirl your mouse around in liquid metal. (via BoingBoing)

Wrong mix for the job.

This starts out intriguing and gets even more so. It’s a piston-powered baseball bat.

Dry ice art.

Hana Mash Hu Al Yaman. (via NagOnTheLake)

Do you think there’s life on other planets?

The traumatic life of Ernest Hemingway shouted by a puppet in 3.5 minutes.

How we get CRTs.

A rhythmical ad for the kind of coffee making machine I imagine rich people might put in their architecture magazine houses and have a special butler-person, maybe an attractive deaf high-school girl intern, to fiddle with it for ya and then go back to her desk in the foyer.

Will and Garrett. (via EverlastingBlort)

It looks like a little person playing some sort of musical instrument. (via Fark)

Just a quick snatch of a pretty fire art project. (via EverlastingBlort)

Wear a mask.

Rerun: Breakdancing fingers.

Entirely analog. Imagine the condition of the signal after, say, twenty skips. /But no noticeable delay/.

Speaking of analog. Analog musical instruments.

Every issue ever of Psychotronic Video magazine, free. (via BoingBoing)

Ramp. (via b3ta)

“You been the raspberry seed in my wisdom tooth long enough! Do you know what I see written all over your face, boy? Reform school!” (That’s pronounced re-FAH-werm.)

Fifteen ways to cook a hotdog besides boiling it. I recommend using chicken hotdogs or rather more expensive Polish-dogs. The regular cheap beef-pork-mystery hotdogs just taste /off/ anymore, and it’s not just me, everyone says so. Turkey hotdogs, like turkey meatballs and turkey bacon and turky pastrami, have always been concentrated vomit, in my opinion. But they had to find somewhere to put all those millions of tons of genetically inflated turkeys in between Thanksgivings.

Une mission ephemere. (via b3ta)

Hope and cringe.

     “People in a position of power always want everyone to shut up about abuse of power.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-16) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top. Look at the date next to the title. It’ll be the date of the end of the show, Saturday morning.)

I said I’d put up the Dory Dan material tonight, but I’m not ready. The stories and even a few photographs are still coming in. Wait a bit.

Edit (2020-10-31): Here it is in the Anderson Valley Advertiser.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Drone flight video is more and more like dreams of flight. I love the way it goes right past the subjects and flips over and back to follow, keeping them in the frame the whole time.

That’s going to add up to $10,000 by the time he’s done.


Catnip: egress to oblivion?

Mirror dive.

Then and now. (via NagOnTheLake)

Postcards from the future. Wish we were there. (via EverlastingBlort)

Fine, then. (via b3ta)

Scream of the bikini. (via b3ta)

1. “He just wanted animal fur.” And 2 through 8.

Don Pauly, things have, uh, changed.

For 3,000 years, swastikas meant good luck. Then /bam/ and goodbye to all that.

I know you. You vant to plug in your phone charcher. You come here, you give me hugk first. No hugk, no charcher. (via×800/media/img/photo/2020/10/photos-week-1/a16_RC27EJ90UZYD/original.jpg

The story behind the song: Popcorn.


Mastery of the medium. Everybody else can go sit down. (via

Speaking of which. If you’ve ever rented an electric-start 12-hp ditch-witch to save you having to dig a few measly yards of ditch to put pipes or cable conduit in the ground, and then it was all so hard, reading the instructions, driving it off the trailer, steering it along the path, hosing it off, putting it back on the trailer and driving it /all the way back/ to the rental place and feeling tired and satisfied with a job well done, compare yourself to this woman whose physical body is a real-life gas-powered shovelhammer and who could probably casually pull your arms off like a boiled chicken.

Try it now.

Just the trailer.

I must’ve been living on some other planet to only just now be finding out this guy exists. And the drummer, too. Wow.

Repete. (That’s how they spell that over there.)

Teeth. (via NagOnTheLake)

Safe fashion show. (via NagOnTheLake)

Nature Planet.

This magician apparently lives in a place where people are terrified of magic. I’m afraid someone might punch him, or hurt themselves by running away out into the street without looking both ways first.

I like the hotdog one. And the last one.

An abandoned music school in Chernobyl. (via Neatorama)

They had this building technology in the year 1357. Why aren’t we living in cities in space by now?

Panty raid.


Propel. “When this performance was completed, the dispassionate rider was replaced by an ear whose height was the height of the artist. The robot then performed the same choreography. The robot that choreographs the ear also carved it.” (via b3ta)

And Dory Dan at 16 back in the Space Age. He just died last week. Look at those adorable great flappy ears.

Comedy of Horrors 2: Clown Without Pity.

     “Does anyone here feel sometimes like our country is cursed, as if the whole thing were built on some sort of ancient Indian burial ground?” -Myq Kaplan

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-09) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top. Look at the date next to the title. It’ll be the date of the end of the show, Saturday morning.)

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

The forbidden cave.

The hand.

Why not both?

Ladies and Gentlemen. (1.5 hours)

Metal art. (via EverlastingBlort)

“Stop that, Ivanka. Nobody believes your fake tears.”

The audio/video sync is off by about a quarter-second, but so what. Anyway, he’s dead now, from cigarets.

2020 in Star Wars.

A new game.

“I work part-time for an app that lets people decide how much grave they want dug.”

This was 35 years ago. He’s dead now. He died on Tuesday of cancer from smoking cigarets.

Marionette Freddie Mercury.

That Kellyanne. Such a kidder.

Open air fish market in Yakutsk at minus-49-degrees-Fahrenheit. Original sound on the video, mostly the sound of the camera person’s boots cold-squeaking on the ground. (via the Anderson Valley Advertiser)

Technically it’s a /kilo/drone. Still pretty cool.

How we get Greek train tunnels.

A Petri dish of cable cross-sections. (via polymath science popularizer Cliff Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

Speaking of a Petri dish: Parting out the end of an obscenely wasteful, ridiculous industry whose only real benefit was a handful of jobs for piano bar performers and, in antique wartimes, troop transport. Though we’ll wish we had kept a few of these ships around and intact when the climate panic-migrations begin. And I suppose they could be prisons and office buildings and dystopian orphanages and entry-level housing right now. Just hook up electricity and sewage.

For example, one of the great films of all time involves a cruise ship pianist.

Brewery reactor control room.

What makes the Hottentot so hot? Who put the ape in apricot? Whatta dey got dat I ain’t got?

Mister Mankiewicz.

Click for the gallery. My favorite is the Cheshire gecko. And the fluffy ice bug. And the eel larva.

Roue de poisson. (Wheel of fish.) With video of one operating.

Downhill bike race. Vertiginous.

Go on, you know you want to, knock yourself out.

Human history. (10 min.)

Pomplamoose – End Of The World As We Know It.

Oh, dear.

/Nice, Ron!/  /What, I’m not allowed to sneeze now?/

This funny musical boy.

Alexandr Misko’s English has really improved. His guitar ability pegged the meter a long time ago.

People selling mirrors.

100-year-old hand-colored glass photographic slides of life in Japan.

A beautiful clockwork assembly toy. As expensive as it looks, though. When I win the lottery, I guess.

NASA Astronomy Picture of the Day Archive.

Full-screen this 40-minute fractal meditation.

Senator Elizabeth Warren and Representative Katie Porter break down President Trump’s tax returns.

Michelle Obama reams Fat Donny Two-Scoops a new one. (24 min.)


Ring juggling dance.

Creepily superhuman athletic contortionist juggling dance.


The reesks and dangers of drogs.

A deep book-length article about systemic police brutality and its costs in the U.S.

Dealing with diversity.

Dancing. This is our sacred dance from the Old Country.

Yeah, exactly what /I/ was thinking: This will disrupt toxic stereotypes of gender. “It is also 100% cotton and includes smock embroidery,” so there’s that, too. This is the kind of clothes where you don’t want to be eating oatmeal when you first see it, because you will snort out a quick bark of laughter and oatmeal will get up inside the back of your nose. That’s worse than when you get Pepsi up in there. And it’s only $1,500.


Underarm magic for modern witches.


“People say these are slow. They’re not slow. They’re peppy.”

I repeat: How could you practice for this?

Rocket dog. (via Fark)

Just keep scrolling down. There’s more story.

I have /Inka-Dinka-Doo/ on one of my mix disks in the car so I hear it a lot. The sort of progress in this video reminds me of when Jimmy Durante says comic-indignantly, “Tell me, Mr. James, now just what did /you/ accomplish!” (via NagOnTheLake)

Art. Click on Gallery for more galleries of Mike Worrell’s art. (via EverlastingBlort)

Rax. You can eat here.

Fossil-fuel-powered surfing in the desert. That’s what we need.

The actress.

The girl you wish you hadn’t started a conversation with at a party, part 1.

Ladies. Okay, good effort, good effort. Elbows up, though. Raise your guard. And punch, don’t slap… This reminds me of how throughout the series /Eureka/ they never missed an opportunity for Doctor Allison and Doctor Beverly to go wild on each other and smack each other around. This is a little like that. The probably-no-longer-kosher term for this is girlfight. That’s what everyone would shout when I was in grammar school and high school, when girls would fight, though in real life there was a lot more pulling hair and kicking shins about it, and shrieking details of the initial grievance. Very entertaining and then always a disappointment when a teacher would run out or run in and stop it. Juanita asked me once why I think boys like watching girls fight. I know it’s supposed to be sexy but I don’t see it that way. It might be that you’re pretty sure the whole time that nobody’s going to get really hurt, but then there are things like River in /Serenity/ and the carnage is the point, but that’s a girl fighting men, and it’s cartoon fighting. I dunno.

In the early-2000s teevee show /Firefly/ this is what they call going full burn. These creatures were the model for the spaceship.

Speaking of /Firefly/, this career video producer has somehow never seen it (!), and is only just now watching it, here in 2020. I remember about ten or so years ago when Juanita’s then-twelve-year-old niece was visiting her grandmother and we were all there for some kind of holiday, and I put on the first disk of Firefly, and Teryn was quiet throughout the pilot episode, but when it was over she said, “Is there more of this?” and she wanted all the rest of it, right now, just like everybody does when they see it.  Sure, no problem, here ya go.  I said, “What do you like most about it?”  She thought about it a minute and said, “I like looking at Adam Baldwin.”  One time around that era I asked her what her favorite movie was, ever, and she said, “Fight Club,” and I said, “Huh,” in the tone Mal uses, in /Firefly/, when he sees what’s in the box. I think I might have a skewed view of how things are anymore. I think girlfights might be different now from the way they were when I was twelve. I don’t really see kids in groups much anymore. Probably no-one ever spits at anyone else, too, what with the masks and everything. Kids used to spit at each other all the time… I hear you thinking, “What? Where did you live?” In the Old Country, of course. You could get your whole car painted for $59.99 there. A complete brake job was like fifteen dollars a wheel. A sack of ten hamburgers was one dollar at Norm’s and you could use all the ketchup and mustard you wanted from big squeeze-bottles at the end of the counter. Water was free. There were sanitary drinking faucets everywhere, in every public building and on every corner, and there were places to sit down where you didn’t have to pay anything at all. You could just sit down and read a whole book and nobody thought anything of it.

Grammar allergy.

And something about deeply held beliefs.


     “They had this light with a caricature of Eddie Cantor that would go on, so the rule was, when you see Eddie Cantor, get off the stage.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-10-02) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back a little bit. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top. Look at the date next to the title. It’ll be the date of the end of the show, Saturday morning.)

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Kinetic sculpture. It’s all balanced and close to frictionless. No motors or electricity or magnets involved, nor witchcraft.


How could you practice for this?

Oh! Wonderful!

But that was then. This is now.

There was a big black-and-white photo in the cafe corner of the old Caspar Inn roadhouse bar, of Falling Eagle (his real name, from before his tree career) falling out of a tree he was topping in some year in the 1960s– shot at the exact moment of things going wrong. Falling Eagle lived to fall out of many more trees. (via EverlastingBlort) (click the sound on)

“Stimulates and invigorates. A mechanical tonic for all the organs.” A medicine chair.

Also this.

“We want Muffin the Mule.”


LS/MFT. “So round. So firm. So fully packed.” And it reminds me: remember how the whole world used to smell like an ashtray? Everyone smoked everywhere. At the table in restaurants, in buses and airplanes, in the car, in the toilets, walking down the street, at the gym, on stage getting an award, in a waiting room…

Martin Roberts’ invisible piano. (via b3ta)

An easy explanation of how and why solar electric power cells actually work.

Do as do in a cat. Do as do. As you believe, so do as do.

Pull my string. (This is a short clip from the video of /Give Me Immortality or Give Me Death/ by the Firesign Theater.)

Funny Vietnam stories.

Nowness. Colin Jones (via NagOnTheLake)

Animal eyeballs. They see you. (via NagOnTheLake)

Mask effectiveness.

My favorite Saturday Night Live sketch ever, of my favorite Saturday Night Live cast member ever. This reminds me of Tracy Burns of the old Hit and Run Theater, where they’d be doing a routine and she’d fly away with it into the sky, with everyone else just trying to hang on.

All the two-second-long sax riffs from the /Lethal Weapon/ franchise, which I never saw, but it looks fun. Apparently it’s cops. (via EverlastingBlort)


Light dancing. One of the light sticks gets loose on one end and the kid improvises: “I’m peeing! I’m peeing!”


Time. (via NagOnTheLake)

“I hate everything but I’m not going to do anything about it.”

They’re only suggestions.


Where did I leave my tools? Oh, right, yeah. Thanks for helping me look. Never mind.

This is more like how life feels than just about every other piece of art I’ve seen in the last week. Probably more for girls, in this case. When I find one for boys, I’ll let you know.

Speaking of which, if I were judge, this is the winning dog, right here.

A Night in the Show.

“Says you.”

Baby octopockles, so cute.

Leo Morracchioli covers WAP in metal.

Grandpa guzzled a gallon of good gasoline.

Who you can blame everything wrong in the world on:

So smart. There’s an Aesop’s fable  from 2,600 years ago about something very close to this very trick. (via NagOnTheLake)

How ten competing brassiere styles in the same size actually fit. Apparently, if your concern is /comfort/ then the trade-off is either saggy, boob muffin top or, surprisingly, ’50s rocket nose effect. I’m not sure why but this article reminds me of the angry old crippled man in /My Life As A Dog/ whose only pleasure in life, besides fantasizing about shooting the neighbor who’s constantly hammering on the roof, is closing his eyes while the little boy reads aloud to him from an underwear catalog.

Neural Network natural history. (via NagOnTheLake)

Release the Quacken!

It says /emotional/ but I think it’s just that his hands hurt to do this.

Mentally subtract the chair-drum guy. It doesn’t need it at all.

“I run away to stop the high speed camera.”

How we get a concrete Strat.

How we get a giant nixie tube that almost works.

How we get [fill in blank].

How we get divorced. (via BoingBoing)

A day at the races. It says R.C. models, but there’s no radio control. There’s just the control cables that make the toy climb or fall and keep it from smashing the teeth in of onlookers and the pit crews inside the fence. I’d like to see a compilation of disasters of this sport. I count about 1.5 seconds for a full pirouette, and if the cable length is 40 feet, that’s like 120 miles per hour. If the plane (with motor) weighs as much as a baseball, then it wouldn’t be a trivial mishap; it could kill you. Maybe nothing has ever gone wrong. Nobody has a helmet on, or any protection at all. The arm-mounted fueling system is impressive. It’s as though they just wave at the plane and it’s filled up.

Drone photo awards. Categories in separate galleries. (The fish market, in the Urban category, reminds me of Eavesdown Docks on Persephone, in /Firefly/.)

Honest Trailer for Firefly. That does it, I’ll be watching them all all over again.


One cab’s family. (via NagOnTheLake)


Our friend the atom.

Our friend the blue marble.

The upside-down pyramid of conspiracy theories.

This instant! You wicked child.

Art chart. (via NagOnTheLake)

And happy dogs, especially the little poodly one spinning the chair.

Fourier transforms for birds.

     “Why, sure, I’m a billiard player. Mighty proud to say it, always mighty proud to say it. Helps you cultivate horse sense and a cool head and a keen eye.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-09-25) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back awhile. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top. Look at the date next to the title. It’ll be the date of Saturday morning.) And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet, if you’re lucky and they still work. A lot of them don’t. Say /shoot/ or say la vie or whatever you say when things aren’t going exactly to your liking, and move on with your life, and try to power through the disastrous disappointment. It’ll be good practice for the coming election. Speaking of which, when you get your mail ballot, vote immediately, even in California. And get your flu shot.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s somewhat uneven but still impressive MOTA show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Bollywood Superman.

Soviet sci-fi cinemas.

Beijing recycling-plant-sourced archive of 850,000 anonymous photographic negatives. (via NagOnTheLake)

Instumentality. The street bounce-juggle-drummer at 2:30. Or the guy drumming on a bucket and pipes and junk in the sand. Or the drummer on balls in water bowls.

This pizzicato guy. (via TheAwesomer)

Fly Me Off The Handel. (To add to /4-chord song/ and /Pachelbel Rant/ and this.)

It’s just so happy.

Food poetry.


The link between settling and bending over.

How to make a ten mile long road and train tunnel under the sea. (via NagOnTheLake)

Clockwork art. Watch the second video.

A.I. art.

Fire art.

Unwitting fire performance art, or possibly deliberate prank. In the planner’s or artist-perpetrator’s) favor, though, hydrogen tugs a balloon upward about eight percent better than helium does, and hydrogen is cheap and not at all in short supply. You weigh the risks and benefits. Sometimes you get away with it, sometimes it blows up in your face. Or just over your head. Wherever it is when it blows up or blows down. (I have a story to tell you about welding-supply hydrogen-oxygen balloons and the proper mix for desired speed and flash and sound, but not right now.) (Except to say, don’t. And if you must, devise a way to light them from a safe distance, like a long line of toilet paper for a fuse, and only in wet winter.) (To estimate a safe distance, see the following video.)

Speaking of which, there was somebody in this camper when the entire air inside exploded from a propane leak and blew the whole thing to smithereens. (In case you ever wondered, this is an example of literal smithereens.) And that person is still alive, and eventually they’re going to be fine.

Exploding underwater fire rings. For the SOAS (short of attention span), drag it to about 8:50).

Organilleros! (via b3ta)

Good point.

For fuck sake. What the hell is the matter with these cops?

Wait a minute, I remember what the matter is. Here:

Our good friend, the long run.

“It was my mom who pointed out that this could be a business for me.”

2020 Audubon bird photography winners.

Too high. Too narrow. Too cold. Too gusty. Would not go there even if they said, “Come on, you gotta get out of the house. You’ll have a good time. All your friends will be there.” They’re not your friends. Friends don’t make you go places you have way more sense than to ever go. A simple /no/ should always be enough. If they keep at you after that and won’t leave you alone, that’s what those pepper spray cans in the checkout counter display in the grocery store are for. You can get some when you go for staple foods and perhaps a treat, and keep one in each pocket of your bathrobe.

The very model.

Chipmunk Movie with voices normalized.

That’s right, baby. Shake it one time. Shake it on down.

Body landscapes.

The fascinating Eye of Sauron-like eye iris that time-lapse-dissolving an M&M makes. (via NagOnTheLake)

/Feed me./ Does it have to be human? /Feed me./ Does it have to be fresh? /Feed me./ Where’m I s’posed to get it? /Feed me, Seymour. Feed me all night looooong./

Speaking of rackets, I have a battery-powered high-voltage electric fly-swatting badminton racket that uses somewhat the same principle to cure AIDS, autism /and/ COVID-19 by electrifying seventeen molecules of water vapor in the air into hydrogen peroxide. $1.99 in Chinatown in 2008, before there even /was/ any COVID-19. And you can hit a (very slow) fly with it, and also knock over potted plants or a lamp, dang. And play badminton and shock the shuttlecock at the same time, so /it/ can fly away across the net and cure autism and warts by remote, way over there.

Phone ordering customer service.

Nietzsche’s message.

“Good morning, Twenty-Seven. How are we feeling today?”

Harpo on Milton Berle’s show.


Advent of the grawlix.

“Complete anarchy in crime-torn NYC urban hellhole.” (Scroll down.)

He doesn’t fidget that way because he’s in particularly bad neurological health for his age –though that is an issue– but because he’s constantly awkwardly balancing, tipped forward on two-inch-plus heel lifts, to pretend to be tall and let his tent-suit disguise his enormous fat belly (even with the man-girdle) and dangling sloped shoulders, and it hurts to hold that position. His back muscles, such as they are, and leg muscles are crying for help, just as everything he does and says is a warbled cry for help, a cry to get him out of there, out of who he is and has been. You think this is a nightmare for you; imagine how much of a nightmare just being him must be, even when he’s alone in the toilet.

Where we’re headed.

Put another log on the fire.

“We had to be careful. Anything that smacked of bestiality was kept out of the paper, but we didn’t go into how he was conceived. We just said he was found in a cave and built on the image.” In fact: “Five U.S. senators are space aliens!”

Love is magic.

I love this. “Should we tell them?” she says. “I’m gonna tell them.”

Rerun from a long time ago, with a new title, dadgummit.

Speaking of which, here’s what it looks like when someone has what they call a /brain event/ on television and it isn’t just a slurry Southern accent and lifetime stupid subject like fishing where you’d never even notice.

Miss Ice centennial.

Be your own mother of dragons. (via NagOnTheLake)

This blacksmith champion Anne, the one on the left, is Anne Bujold, /Lois McMaster Bujold’s daughter/.

And a little about three-time Nebula award winner and seven-time Hugo award winner Lois McMaster Bujold, creator of the Vorkosigan Saga, including one of my favorite space-opera science fiction characters ever, dwarf military genius Miles Naismith Vorkosigan’s mother /Cordelia/. Best line? Okay, that would be in response to a bunkered war general’s barked question, “Where have you been, woman!” Cordelia says, “I went shopping. And look what I got! The price was a bit steep, though.” And she bowls and bumps a heavy shopping bag down the long table of meeting war staffmen for the general to open it and find the /bloody severed head of the enemy leader/, pretender to the throne, who’d been terrorizing their city and potentially the entire empire from the fortified safety of his (their own) palace… Oh, wait, there’s another from the same novella: Sergeant Bothari, incredibly messed up mentally, has bonded with Cordelia, who once rescued him (from, among other things, being compelled by /his/ torturer to torture her!) and now he worships her; he can focus and stay relatively sane and not explode in brute animal violence unless she gives explicit permission, and he’s so grateful. At one point they’re brazening their way past enemy guards; one of the guards says to Bothari, “And just who are /you/.” Bothari says, “I’m the Lady’s dog,” and just stands there and /smiles softly/ at him, all that ready destruction and horror simmering beneath the surface. The big tough armed guards swallow nervously and let them pass. (It’s been ages since I read those books. I might have a word or situation wrong here and there.)

Children of the corn (and) Juking the stats.

     “If life were a game, Boomers got to play on easy, Gen Xers have to play on hard, Millenials are playing on expert and Gen Z’s game crashed while they were trying to download it.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-09-18) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back awhile. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top.) And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet, if you’re lucky and they still work. Some of them don’t. Or maybe they’re just resting, I don’t know. They’re like the nine-hundred grandmothers in the R.A. Lafferty story about a spaceman who visits a planet where when people get old they don’t die, exactly, they get smaller and tinier and sleepier and sleepier, settling deeper and deeper in the basement of the city, and the very oldest, the size of your thumb, only just half-wake-up to giggle at intruders and infuriatingly refuse to answer your question that you traveled light-years to ask. I just remembered that’s the source of a line I think of every once in awhile, where an angry person is about to destroy someone, to crush someone in his hand because of feeling disrespected, and the tiny helpless someone smiles gently, sleepily up at him and says, “I look at you, you look at me, I wonder if you’ll do it,” and just waits to be set down, because she knows he won’t crush her, and that’s why he doesn’t. I think this might work on a policeman at least as well as whatever else you try. It wouldn’t work on someone with no wisdom at all, so it’s less and less useful, going forward, because that’s the direction the graph of available wisdom is headed, alas.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s sparkling MOTA show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Time-lapse of the fires, from space. At this scale it’s like you could just mist it with a plant spritzer and it would go right out.

No safety harnesses or safety anything, just a vision of the future, engineering, and young people proud to risk their lives for others to have lights and radios and washing machines and whatever they want, to just flip a switch and not even have to think about how it all works, nor say a little OCD rhyming prayer of thanks to Nikola Tesla who invented practically our whole world that still nearly entirely relies on long distance high-tension A.C. power transmission, 127 years after the Chicago World Exposition where he unveiled it.

The other side of that daredevil coin: Russian stunt loons. Also, consider, they’re not just doing these things; they’re drunk too, a lot of them.

Double Indumnity. (via NagOnTheLake)

Detective story.


Psycho a Go-Go. The man is wild for the woman spazzing in there. He even grabs up a blanket to peek around, as if that will help and, peeking around it, gets it near his face so naturally he starts chewing on it. He’s out of his head with frustration about the plastic cage and can’t get at the woman. Now, I would think, /First, unplug the record player. See what happens then./ Probably a calm would settle on the situation and things would improve. That’s another good lesson: shut off the noise for a minute, the noise might be the whole problem.

George Carlin explains Fury Road eight years in advance, though he’s really explaining all of history and it fits Fury Road because so is that. I was raised by women; I don’t have the problems he’s talking about. I have other problems that are equally all somebody else’s fault.

Witch Doctor.

Gargoyle. It might not be a good idea to treat the extradimensional Hellmouth beneath the cursed Denver airport as a joke. But they captured a gargoyle and harnessed it as a figure of fun. They must know what they’re doing. (via NagOnTheLake)

I love these people.



Rocket fail. Turn the sound on.

Cheap green-ass traish. (via b3ta)

A sad bird story. (via MissCellania)

What do you suppose somebody did to this dog with a hose once that made it so terrified of it? And why is a broken pet’s psychic misery so funny to people in so many videos? I’m thinking of the stock video of people, not only Russians, laughing their head off because a cat fell off the refrigerator onto its head, or got burned or shocked, or two pets are goaded into being pissed off enough to be murdering each other, or drunken auto-mechanic boys, at walnut-brain-level mentality from just being boys, let alone drunk, are playing a prank where they inflate someone’s butt with the compressor. A tip: that prank kills dozens of people every year and ruins the life of hundreds more. Mostly in Russia, apparently. It only takes four pounds of pressure to perforate your entire lower G.I. tract. Maybe they should teach that in school. And it’s mostly in the U.S. where boys stick fireworks up their butt and burn and cripple themselves. At the risk of giving you the impression that I’m overly attentive to this subject, I’m merely repeating it all to save your life. One day you’ll be twenty years old and not very bright in the back of the shop on a slow day and somebody only slightly brighter than you will pick up the compressor hose and go, “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” and you’ll hear him out and simply decline, and that’ll be the end of it, like they should leave this dog alone. Or, I dunno, feed it hamburger through a hose and cure it of its kinetic screaming hose-o-phobia.

Speaking of which, ridiculously expensive public art: “The fist, the big dick and the golden butthole coming together, it’s pure Michigan.”

Alexandr Misko’s latest. See? This is what Russians and Eastern Europeans should do instead of the thing with the compressor /or/ the stunts with the cars.

Saw that coming. I hope it didn’t hurt its feet in the propellers.

Moving pictures. (via b3ta)

I thought the camera for this must be on a balloon or a kite. But Marilyn Bellamy (of NagOnTheLake) showed me a picture of the view backward from the tugboat. There’s a ninety-foot-tall structure of some sort of cargo on the barge it’s pulling. The camera is on the top of that.

Further zen motoring. (via b3ta)

World of moss. (via NagOnTheLake)

Nope. No. When I was in high school my friend Randy and I climbed down into something not quite as bad as this. You could actually sit up a bit and move around each other in places. But it was dirt, an old mine, not hard rock, so it might fall at any time, had actually fallen mostly in, and I put up with it and proceeded downward and across and downward until I was screaming inside, and the flashlight was going out (we had one flashlight), and there was a place you had to go /under the muddy water to go farther, if indeed there was even another open place on the other side/. That was the straw for me to panic/flee/scramble out. Finally, afterward, back up in the light and space and air, I was like /NEVER AGAIN/, of course, but I was quiet about it because I didn’t want Randy to think I was a pussy (!); that was the important part, not maybe dying suffocating beneath the earth, your chest pressed flat by eighty feet of earth and your own stupidity, but /not being a pussy/. Randy said, “I’d like to come back here with the scuba tank, and–” GAH! He wasn’t kidding. He said, “You don’t have to. I’ll come back by myself.” No. Jesus. Well, he’s dead anyway now. I already told you enough times what happened to Randy; I don’t wanta talk about that anymore. Maybe later, next time somebody, usually a toxic man, starts talking about getting a bunch of guns to protect their family from other people with a bunch of guns. Until there’s a loaded, ready-to-fire gun within reach of everyone confused or jealous or disappointed or insecure or racist or startled, and/or afraid someone will think he’s weak if he doesn’t grab it up and use it, which is the exact wrong way around to think about that.

Dancin’ Queen.

Learn about the hurdy gurdy.

Party on, Wayne. Party on, Garth. (via NagOnTheLake)

Asian love potion.

Ceilings. Nothing more than ceilings. Ceilings of luh-wuvvv.

There is a church in France, where the floor is full of plants.

Coming climate migration. (Scroll slowly.)

Rerun: Small booj. Larger booj. BWAAAAH.

For people for whom computer keyboards don’t have enough keys.

Oh, yeah? Well, anthropomorphize /this/.

Vic Berger’s Reverend Jim Bakker compilation. (40 min.) (via b3ta)

Antique micrographia.

Coronet Films: Hundreds of hours of instruction, all about how to be a person.

“The world’s really fucked but this show will be pretty good.”

Ten things your parents were right about. A slideshow.

Covid statistical data. Graphs. Items to click on and interact with. Knock yourself out.

Subway to Coney Island. A coney is a wild rabbit. The island is named after the rabbits that used to live there, like the Canary Islands, and Sardinia, and so on. The canaries and sardines and coneys are all long gone now, but according to the Buddhists they’re all still out there somewhere, interacting, trading bodies (trading up or down, depending). There’s no evidence for that, but it’s a tradition, like telling children that Grandma’s in Heaven, watching you brush your teeth and take out the trash without being told, and dead pets are not dead but gone away to a farm somewhere, speaking of pets. Pet sardines, there’s an idea. The old kind that tasted way better and were not so mushy. I opened a can of tuna last week and you could pour it out like oatmeal. Back when these kids were riding that grafitti-embroidered subway, canned fish was pretty good.

Never shoot at the water, son. Here, watch me shoot at the water to show you why to never shoot at the water. I hope there’s nobody anywhere on the entire other side of the lake, though. Don’t worry about it. Use your noodle, boy, if there was, they’d all be shooting back by now.

And get a real tree guy to knock your tree down. Not a /Goddammit! Shit-shit-shit!/ guy. If you must get a GSSS guy, use this level of foresight in framing the shot so we can all enjoy it. This is the gold standard of framing such an event.

The Trump plan.

Reg number.

“Oh, you’re a dear. And I’m a pig. So I’ll do it.”


The thinnest place in your password security, illustrated.

And Bobby McFerrin singing Joan Armatrading’s /Opportunity/ for dessert.

Pantone 130U.

     “Mars is burning. Tens of thousands are dead. And nobody is thinking, nobody is listening, they’re just reacting.” — Picard

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-09-11) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back awhile. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top.) And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet, if you’re lucky and they still work. Some of them don’t. Or maybe they’re just resting, I don’t know. They’re old. If they want to get up and dance, great; if they don’t, let them be.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s sparkling MOTA show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Emma Peel is dead.

“Well, just like that, except it was yellow.” (via NagOnTheLake

A puzzle.

They look so happy but they weren’t, really. People of that era were all drunk nearly all the time and/or on amphetamines, and in private, at home, they bickered bitterly over the slightest thing. Life was jagged. All the food did taste better, though, even airplane food, because they were young. The older you get, the more everything tastes like cardboard, and the more salt and spices you have to put in it to make you want it at all. (via NagOnTheLake)

For example, they used to make cigaret filters out of blue asbestos. It was the perfect material for the job.

Brickwork. (via b3ta)

Time of Water.

Fun at the beach.

Gilbert Gottfried reads the sweary lyrics of what passes for popular music now. (I saw a cartoon where a small child says, “What is WAP?” and the mother says, “Wash your hands. Apply hand sanitizer. Put on your mask.”)

Rerun: NWA FTP.

Appropriate accompaniment.

Further appropriate accompaniment.

Slideshow of a beached ekranoplan. (via NagOnTheLake)

They’re like living jewelry. (via TYWKIWDBI)

Details of the sun.

Rocket test launch and landing. Mic in rocket. (via b3ta)


These are some good questions, even if you don’t ask anyone but yourself and think about it.

Winning astronomy photography.

Crimson Dark is a webcomic I particularly like, and not only because it’s great but the artist/writer peppers the whole thing with instructions and detailed descriptions of the equipment he uses and his whole process. He’s been doing it all his adult life, in between his tech jobs. Here are some pages about halfway through (551-555) showing the steps of producing Crimson Dark. Starting at page 1 and reading 15 minutes a day at a minute a page gives you a over two months of enjoyment before you have to start waiting for each new page. Or you could snarf up the whole immense saga in one 17-hour day, less time than it takes him to produce a single page.

Even more beautiful than the original.

The real reason.

Marionettes. The Lonely Goatherd song from Sound of Music.

Now you know what the nine quarters trick is. I saw the title and I thought it was going to be about putting nine quarters in your nose, and you’d have to have a hell of schnozz to do that. I can only get five in mine without tearing something. Or two penlights, to do the trick where you inflate and deflate your nose in the dark and pretend to be an old-fashioned police car light. Kids love that one. But this one’s okay too.

This flying-grain-silo technology will one day take us to Mars, a filler goal. It’s a waste of time to limit space enthusiasm to the planets. Cities in space, among the resources of space, without all the fabulously wasteful landing on and taking off from big stupid planets, is what the future calls for. But if you have to say Mars to get people excited, say Mars.×900.jpg


The story of the three little philosophers.

A kinetic poem. (via NagOnTheLake)

Thank you, mask math.

It also works if you play it and close your eyes and think of one of the two words– you hear the one you think of. There’s a lesson in this. (via TYWKIWDBI)

Deep face drawing. (via b3ta)

Try it yourself. (also b3ta) (optimized for Chrome browser)


An endless hellscape of pain and madness.

The Jerry McSafety song.

And forty-five British soap stage-slaps. You bitch. You cow. You bastard. How dare you. How /could/ you. Don’t you ever say that to me again. And so on. It’s interesting to watch because, though I know that people probably have actually slapped people in real life, I’ve never seen it clearly, up close and in person, except in theater with no real contact. I’m having trouble imagining doing it, myself; it’s like the gears of the thought get stuck and won’t turn to that point. Try it– choose a person and /imagine/ actually slapping them. Your hand would stop. You couldn’t do it. You’d be afraid you’d miss by a small amount and sprain a finger or scratch them or poke them in the eye (!) or clap their ear and burst their eardrum. And another thing: the slappee just stands there /looking right at them/ while the slapper, clearly out of his or her mind with anger, waves a hand all the way out to the side, obviously about to do it; why doesn’t the slappee’s head reflexively turn or duck backward three inches and blunt or avoid the blow? Why doesn’t their own arm come up to block it? How is it possible to slap anyone who doesn’t want it… Oh. Maybe they want it. People are weird, and things they do on teevee are even weirder. But here’s something else: you have no trouble at all imagining /entirely/ impossible things like clenching your fists and flying up into the air. But just to consider violence: since I was small I’ve dreamt of every sort of it /except/ slapping, including something like what the Hulk does to Loki, where you pick the enemy up by an ankle, or both ankles, and slam them over and over against the walls and floor until they’re all busted up like a sockful of bloody pennies. See, you have no trouble at all imagining that. You’ve probably dreamed of it yourself long before that movie came out. So funny, though, when the Hulk does it, regards what’s left of Loki and grunts, “Puny god.”

Journey to Dagnabbit.

     “Maybe there is a planet which is fighting with global cooling, and maybe we could trade corporations.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-09-04) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back awhile. (That page sometimes needs an extra refresh to get the latest show to appear on top.) And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet, that are even harder to get to and to make play right as you go farther back in time until, far enough and nothing works at all anymore, just like real life, except backwards, because plenty of vacuum cleaners and toasters made in the 1950s still work great, where the microwave oven from 2014 is rusted through already and still heats up the food but in patches because the floor inside doesn’t turn around anymore but just goes /shove, shove, shove/.

The last thing I did before printing out last night’s show to read was to, just on a whim, experiment with globally replacing all instances of plain Donald Trump with impeached president Donald Trump. That turned out to be a mistake. Not that he wasn’t impeached, he was, by the house of Congress comprised of representatives of the American people who, unlike impeached president Donald Trump, were actually elected by majority vote, after Republican gerrymandering, dirty tricks and massive voter suppression too. But it just made me stumble over each reading, feeling strange about leaving all the writers’ names on something I changed en masse with a click, or considering explaining every time, and sometimes doing that and sometimes just stuttering. Sorry. Not trying /that/ again. I think we all learned something here today. Though the Trump Trump Trump of everywhere you look and everything you read points up how much of what’s going so deadly wrong in the U.S. is directly connected to and flowing from that giant serial-lying mob-bossy orange turd and his handlers and enablers and pollution cloud of armed-and-belligerent racist lumps who adore him for giving them permission to cut loose and let it all hang out, many of them in government service now, not just on the borders but all the way through, getting away with literal kidnapping and/or conspiratorial gang offenses and/or cowardly murder or just thuggish bullying every damn day. Men with actual Nazi tattoos on their hands and necks and not even hidden discreetly in their clothes who were hired and sworn in and who promised with fresh-scrubbed faces to protect and serve; well, we see what that swear is worth to them, or maybe they crossed their fingers behind their back about exactly who to protect and who to serve and that makes it right. People descended from immigrants cheering at treating immigrants way worse than their own great-grandparents were treated when they came here in the good old days, tired and poor, tempest tossed, fleeing persecution, for a better life, traveling a hundred or a thousand miles for a pandemic-time maskless leader-worship ceremony, bellowing at American Indians on Indian land to /get outta the way and go back where you came from/. Sorry again. Sorry for the terrible world. Sorry for all that cancer I caused, and Hiroshima and everything, and the Triangle Shirtwaist disaster. Stopping now. Putting a sock in it. Murfle-burfff. Mm-nurf. Forget it, joik, it’s Labor Day.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s sparkling MOTA show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

Seven of the nine basic forms of juggling.

Real-time lightning map. Lightning everywhere in the world. Zoom in on a hot place. Grab and move the map, zoom some more. About a hundred lightning bolts strike every second. Eight million every day. All year long, all the time.

Sonora Art Village. (via NagOnTheLake)

Another in a series of unsettling but fascinating music videos where the original sound is removed and replaced by what you’re actually looking at. (via b3ta)

Oh, uh-uh, oh.

Beckett. (via b3ta)

How do you not listen to a Roman candle of pyrokinetic bullshit, though. I remember being little and being surprised to find that you couldn’t shut out sound by covering your ears. It seemed like it worked for other people, but not for me. And now, six decades later, I don’t even have to cover my ears. Pretty soon I won’t be able to hear a bloody thing but Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump.

Stop the madness.

An open letter to Republicans.

Flamingo fuitetterung unter wasser. It’s kind of like a shoemaker tapping the back of his hand on a shoe to make the glue settle. Remember shoe repair shops? When’s the last time you saw a shoe-repair shop. They used to be all over the place. Remember the way it smelled in there, the leather and chemicals. And every shoe repair man had the same inch-long cigaret in the corner of his mouth every time you went in. And what a mess! But they knew where everything was and could go straight to it. And Sandy Glickfeld in /Elves and the Shoemaker/, kicking her shoes off after a hard day, singing out, “My dogs is barkin’!” (via Everlasting Blort and NagOnTheLake)

Bruce Trumpet sent the link for this. Alligator chases laser dot. When it’s a cat, it looks like it’s having fun. When it’s a turtle or lizard or frog it looks more like teasing it, though. Maybe it’s fun for reptiles and amphibians, I don’t know. I remember a video where a man teases his pet frog with a phone game of insects to poke at; the frog gets tired of shooting its tongue at the screen and getting no bugs to eat. It suddenly strikes like a snake to bite the man’s thumb so he startles and throws the phone up in the air. I heard my Uncle Pat in my head go, “Uh-huh,” meaning both, /Saw that coming,/ and /I told ya./ I think more and more people now feel like that frog, and it’s hard to blame them. The thumb is right there. And more and more people look like a talking thumb, have you noticed? Tucker Carlson comes to mind. And a sheriff I saw last week in a video who was practically a Sontaran but more jellylike, not hard. Search for /talking thumb/, you’ll see.

Man percussively breaks up the mortal squabble between a pigeon and a rat. “Come on, you guys. That ain’t the way. Make nice.” BANG! And then they saunter away, like, We’ll settle this /later/, Coy. I’ll see you /later/.

Wow, you’re Billy Billings!

Synchronized swimming to Stairway to Heaven on Japanese teevee. In regular life you don’t often see people do upside-down splits in bathing panties. There’s nothing wrong with it, it just seems odd, somehow. You imagine yourself there, doing that (as if you could, ha) and feel awkward. Maybe it’s because it’s an extreme form of the one thing a traditional mermaid can’t do. Look up Darling Mermaid Darlings.

“I am a mermaid, my daughter’s a mermaid, and my granddaughter’s a mermaid!”

Yeep, heep, yaaaaw, neep! (repeat)

Hup! Hoop! Hup!


Nightclubs in the daytime. (via Everlasting Blort)

Nighthawks at the Diner in various forms.

Speed-fiddled-with drone shots of, around and through the streets and pathways of Mont Saint-Michel. Dreamlike flight.

A short Halloween pre/post-view. The dollar store already has the Halloween stuff up. As if there’ll be a Halloween this years.

Another in a series of unsettling music videos where the original sound is replaced by what you’re actually looking at. (via b3ta)

Beckett. (via b3ta)

“That is what happens when you foment unrest.”

How we get a Chinese teapot. (via Cynical-C)

A dance to integration. (via NagOnTheLake)

And /Lest We Forget the Horrors/, the list through August 2020:

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

     “If everybody always lies to you, the consequence is not that you believe the lies, but rather that nobody believes anything any longer. And a people that no longer can believe anything cannot make up its mind. It is deprived not only of its capacity to act but also of its capacity to think and to judge. And with such a people you can then do what you please.” -Hannah Arendt

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-08-28) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

The my-fault-one-week-belated San Francisco Mime Troupe Tales of the Resistance Episode 4 is half an hour into this show, so all is forgiven, I hasten to insist. There’s Chapter 16 of Jay Frankston’s book El Sereno, the biblical poetry of dice-throwing algorithms, Harper’s Weekly Review, Major Mark Scaramella of the Anderson Valley Advertiser on local Measure B developments, Scott M. Peterson on the subject of the Newcomb-Benford law applied to nonprofit corporate bookkeeping crookedness, a one-armed schizophrenic UK rollerskater’s spring-powered superhuman stabbing spree, murder, mayhem, sundry petitions to reach in and save the world from its cruel and bizarre self at various crucial access points of its anatomy (such as the elephant-abusing Monterey Zoo) and a Steve Heilig rundown of a single week of slightly pre-Reichstag-fire Trumpian shenanigans. John Sakowicz on the sabotage of Jackie’s historic rose garden. QAnon for, if possible, even dummier dummies. Prototype microscopic semiconductor doctor robots that, when activated by lasers, march through flesh to do their tiny but essential surgical work. One solution to the ethical problem of Dark Batman. Numinous childhood half-memories of family road trips. Paul Modic’s apple-picking three-way unprotected sex adventure. Sports strikes, dreams, delusions, a tourist guide to the very real and ever-enlarging Shrieking Black Portal of Ashtabula, and finally Greg and Sharon Ross’ Futility Closet Podcast, this time about Saint Nicholas Winton and the Czech Kindertransport that saved thousands of children from the inevitable result of /last/ century’s time of putting unlimited power in the hands of a racist, narcissistic madman in a man-girdle and lift shoes.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s MOTA show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:


The soft, sad story of John Wanda and his Wandaland.

1901 they had this. We can’t have this nor have a current-day version of this. Why do you suppose that is?

Captain Marvel’s stunt double’s demo reel. (via Everlasting Blort)

Eh, it’s a living. (via Everlasting Blort)

Oil, water, alcohol. (via b3ta)

Honest ad for the US Postal Service.

“You can’t wink quick enough to escape.”

Exactly how it works.

Protect yourself with Elder Sign.

Indian coronavirus song. (via b3ta)

The voice in your head.

A lot of coincidences.


There, I fixed it for you. (Further in the Adventures of Karens.)

The kid should see this.

An oddly lovely devotional-sounding song titled /The Moon Made Me Shit My Pants/ improvised in real time while writer-musician, member of the hip-hop band The Rubberbandits, and podcasting Scotsman Blindboy Boatclub, moves around in the gamespace of Red Dead Redemption and sings about whatever he sees.

And (thanks to BoingBoing) here’s part of just one of Blindboy’s hundreds of podcasts. The story starts about 28 minutes into the recording and runs for an hour, about The (Immaculate) Arse Children (part 1). (For part 2, you’ll need the book /The Gospel According to Blindboy/.)

How we get rubber stamps. (via NagOnTheLake)

I love this guy’s music projects. An odd, bulbous tone, but it suits it.




“It’s like being blasted in the face with a firehose all the time.”

I know it’s just a tree on fire, but what it looks like is a giant right hand made of hot lava karate-stabbing up out of the earth like Uma Thurman in /Kill Bill/.

A sample of the great giddy happiness that monorail travel and the new productivity drugs everyone was on at the time can bring. (via MissCellania)


Think how cool it would be to live back then and have your job be inventing things like this. Somebody comes into your lab and says, Put that down and pay attention. We want something that does such-and-such by next week. And you go, No problem; I’ll need the chemicals on this list, some old airplanes you don’t care about too much, two broken refrigerators and one good one, and a crate of Moxie. They get on the phone, you have the parts by closing time, stay up all night drinking cold Moxie, welding things together, and by eight o’clock the next morning, voila. You go home. Juanita looks up from her calligraphy, says, Where were you? You say, Making ships invisible, kind of, but– that’s nice: a big curly H made of Medieval heraldic animals and fish. It’s really pretty. And you just love each other and have plenty of money and no problems and the world is perfect. (via NagOnTheLake)

Free online cognitive tests.

Keep. It. Together. Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together, keep it together, keep it together. I heard it in my memory of a movie. /Bowfinger/. Here’s how to say it right, just this part:

(Exclamation mark in parentheses.) (Which I describe rather than just put an exclamation mark in parentheses because that looks like a butt, and that wouldn’t be what I mean. I mean, this astounds me. I can easily memorize how to do it, anyone can, but I don’t get how it works.)

How we do it.

Art. (via NagOnTheLake)


Jet. (You have to look elsewhere for the years of development of the system and the grueling and bruising training and physical exercise that came before this seemingly effortless flight. It looks like flying in a dream but it’s more like balancing trays of dishes, crossing a deafeningly loud wiggling tightrope with no net. Over a field of rocks.)

The moths.

Rerun: The bugs.

The bees.

Awkward family photos. There is no bottom to this page.

I think these photos are perfect. Not awkward or ceepy at all. In a superior timeline, these would be normal high-school yearbook photos, and each one would have a sound.

I don’t know who Eric Andre is, but he’s brilliant and terrifying. This was my introduction to Eric Andre:

Thirteen styles of Creep.

I’m thinking of starting a campaign to get one of these instruments for Carl Shoen. He could blow the fricking /flup/ out of something like this:

Computer-generated realistic imaginary people. (Scroll to low-right and click on Another, and Another, and so on.)

Paper-flipping parkour.

Stop-O-Mation painting film. (via NagOnTheLake)

In real life your locale on Earth is many light years away from where it was hundreds of millions of years ago, but if you don’t care to get technical about it and are willing to only go by where your bit of land was relative to the land around it, and ignore that the inner structure of Earth has always been a swirling milkshake, then here’s where your address was way back when. (via Neatorama). (Give it an address and a year.)

They all knew then, they all know now.

Recently declassified documentary of Soviet Union’s 50 megaton clean thermonuclear bomb. (I skipped you to the good part, but you can go back and watch its railroad train if you like.) (via BoingBoing)

Song legends Karaoke. “Bala nanuw, Ahhh needah dow, Bana ling mada dow. Dee dah m’dee dow L’tee. Bah’da hum nahde hee ahmaw nauw. A’lee naw duuuuuuh.” (via b3ta)


It’s funny because this reminds me of Frank Zappa saying, “Did I hear you say you want some more, well, here’s some more,” in /Dyna Moe Humm/.

Speaking of whom, I was casting about for different versions of /Smoke On The Water/, and this is the one I like the most, right here. It reminds me of the old Mendocino Community School. There was always something like this going on in the band shed. The only thing I’d advise here is, if the bass player would fidget-step around closer to the beat instead of at random, that thumping noise the mic picks up would sound entirely on purpose. Or set the mic stand base on some soft dish sponges. You can pay forty bucks for a complicated clip that holds a mic in a web of cloth-covered rubber bands (that is hard to adjust and soon fails anyway) or you can get a bag of four or six sponges from the dollar store, for a dollar, that last until you lose them. And if something spills, Moxie maybe, and you need a sponge, you always know where one is.

Microsoft Flight Simulator versus real life.


Plants sped up to how it feels to them, with pleasant musical accompaniment.

“Stole a loaf of bread, went to jail, given riches by someone, gained political office, took part in rebellion against the government, has longstanding feud with government official, ultimately influences his enemy to defeat himself. With singing!”

Apropos of little, just today I was thrilled to learn that Firesign Theater once made a movie of their album /Everything You Know is Wrong/. Their cinematographer, Allen Daviau, went on to cinematograph E.T., which, like Everything You Know Is Wrong, involves a visit by space aliens; he made Empire of the Sun, The Color Purple, and many other fine films. But, as thrilled as I was to find all that out, I’m even more saddened to learn that, like 185,000 other Americans, Allen Daviau just died of COVID-19. Watch the film of /Everything You Know Is Wrong/ on Youtube. Note: They left some parts out, and somehow the link deposits you in the middle so you have to drag the line back to start at the beginning. That said, here it is:

Also Chad Boseman, /the/ Black Panther, died just last night, not of COVID-19 but of colon cancer, at 43. His health details were a closely guarded secret. From the BBC: “/Marshall/, /Da 5 Bloods/, /Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom/, /The Black Panther/– all were filmed during and between Boseman’s countless surgeries and chemotherapy.” I’m not sure why this affects me so, when so much of the horror in the world rolls off me like water off a duck’s back, but I’m sitting here weeping so hard I can barely see to type. Fuck. /Bloody fucking hell!/

Cue des cris internes.

     “Goddamn bugs whacked us, Johnny.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-08-21) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy. (Left-click for instant-play. Right-click to download.) And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with the latest show and also other ones going back awhile. And you can go to Links To Recorded Audio, see above, and hear older shows yet.

I blew it about playing Episode No. 4 of the San Francisco Mime Troupe’s summer radio drama series. Due to personal vicissitudes and the continual universal bitch-slap of life anymore I used /all/ the shortcuts in getting ready, and one of those is to dump all the recorded work that I might like to use (assortment of topical break music, Futility Closet podcast, illustrative audio for particular stories, Mime Troupe show, etc.) into the player folder without renaming or flagging anything. So the most important thing wasn’t at the top of the list in all caps but rather somewhere in the lower middle with the Laotian hip-hop, and it didn’t stand out, so I just forgot.

They’re providing new shows every two weeks; I’ll play the missed one 9:30pm this coming week, Oct. 28, and then Episode 5 on Sept. 4, and we’re back on schedule.

Besides all that, here are some links to worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering last night’s MOTA show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your immediate right:

This is fine. (via the Anderson Valley Advertiser)

Fork, in the sense of objects forking, beginning with a fork.

Anderson Cooper tears the MyPillow CEO open like a bag of chips. In the film of these times, Fred Willard would play that guy, but Fred Willard is dead. The MyPillow guy is totally Fred Willard’s interpretation of Vala’s con-man father in Stargate SG1.


I’m happy-crying all the way through. These superhuman little Dutch dancers are superhuman!

Electrochemically speaking, and way oversimplified, this is happiness, magnified and slowed way down. “That filament is inside a cell though. So, the dragging is happening not from one part of the brain to another, but one part of a cell to another.” So just one cell’s worth of happiness, then. Better than nothing.*

Manners in church. (via Everlasting Blort)

It’s a rumble.

Cute beach cars. Wicker seats! (via NagOnTheLake)

“And just where in the galaxy do you think you’re going dressed like that, young lady? You trot your little bio-fanny back inside the ship and put on something decent.” “Oh, pish! Remember how we were at that age? Go on, sweetie, have fun at Xeno-Orgy. Just be back before third moon. And call if you get too intoxicated to fly; I’m happy to come get you.”

This is actually true.

She hates him.

Duetto Buffo di due Gatti.

You don’t say.

Let a thousand balloons balloom.×1059/media/img/photo/2020/08/photos-week-1/a20_AP20221539520659/original.jpg

Jack Gilmour sent me the link to this search-results gallery of bulbously retro-future motorcycles.

Forty Hamlets all on the same page.

For people who miss working in theater, two minutes of calming sound therapy.

USA COVID-19 K-12 SCHOOL CLOSURES, QUARANTINES, AND/OR DEATHS. (“High traffic on this sheet forces us to push out the published link to this sheet. This is why scrolling and seeing all the tabs at once isn’t ideal. This works best on a computer zoomed out a bit.”)

Where Led Zeppelin music came from. You’ve got about half an hour of reading a listening here.

The Black music history library.

Line riders: Beethoven’s 5th.

An ad for real internet. Which we should already have, and for cheaper than what we’re paying for crap internet.

“We are here. Making the same mistakes.”

Bad Lip Reading project does the Axios interview.


I’m having a little trouble imagining American kids being brought to do this, much less being able to.

Supersonic pingpong ball.

That’s the eucalyptus talking.

You’re Human Like The Rest Of Them.

The Seoul of the architect.


The truth about dust. I’ve skipped you ahead to the answer.

Modern Yiddisha vaudeville.

I’ve read things being described as /deeply weird/. These videos would be that.

“Nobody should ever be the second person to die in a wave pool. Close the fuckin’ wave pool!”

He’s driving a truck whose load alone is eight times the bridge’s posted weight limit. “This is America,” he snarls at the sign, “No-one’s gonna tell /me/ where I can and can’t drive my truck.”

Philosophy of humor.

A fresh variety of the robot dance.

They really know how to have fun over there.

Making a cute mini compound crossbow.

A patent for the glowing-red-eyed interrogation skeleton and confession recorder.

Another thing that looks like it just realized something and says, “Hm.”

Eddie Izzard. The mouse is under the table. Sandra Bullock is in the bus with the bomb.

The only ones I don’t like are the ones where they’re getting hit in the head with a bat. Apparently my subconscious isn’t afraid of the other damage and threats, just getting imaginarily hit in the head with a bat.

Providing strangers with theme music. Of course nothing like this could safely be done now, what with brass instruments being a virus bazooka. Also someone would shoot you, and then seven people would shoot them and each other, and it would expand like one of those chain-reaction demonstrations involving a whole floor covered with mousetraps when you drop a single feather in the middle.

And who doesn’t feel like this now all the time? And if you were to ask, Which do you mean, the ant or the bee? I would say, Exactly.