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Shih tzus in the mist.


Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-03-19) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


Thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back quite a way.

And here’s a fresh batch of not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right:

Further fascinating demystification of the Antikythera orrery. (27 min.)

For the planets are in fact not gods and goddesses ruling the affairs of man and advising you to be cautious in dealing with a friend but simply colorful and interesting places, hands of a giant clock, and if our robots can go there we can go there, and they can, and we will. Not you or I, maybe, but people– the best, smartest and bravest people.

Adorable pedal cars and pedal tractors and pedal rocketplanes and so on.


The sound of his voice. I wish my voice sounded like that. I had forgotten all about this show. I used to like it. Columbo had his, “Oh, just one more thing...” Baretta has his parrot, Fred. (I don’t know if Fred is still alive, but there’s a 2014 article about how he’d just turned 100 years old!) And Banacek had, “There’s an old Polish proverb.”

Lenny Laks – All Pink Inside.

Dog in heaven.

Why do you suppose the mother is so tame and trusting? Albatross. (via b3ta)

Boojie woojie. Big smile.

This little girl has been playing trumpet on stage since she was too small to hold the trumpet up. I’ve tried to play brass instruments. I can’t even make a proper /fart/ sound.

Mouth sound effects maestro Michael Winslow’s demo reel.

AyoooO00Oooo. WAH-rah-RAH-wah-oowah-oowahyanah.

The lost sound.

“And just do this until no-one’s willing to be in a Zoom call with you.”

The gentlest boom boom boom boom you will ever hear. He’s not really going to shoot her down; that’s just a metaphor.

The annual blessing of the guns, maybe with WD-40. Look how /old/ some of the guns are. All different kinds. How many of them do you suppose have shot someone suspected of being unfaithful, or who was mouthing off, or standing too close to the wrong car, or who wouldn’t turn that goddamn music down, or who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Blessing anything is just childish superstitious nonsense, but /guns/?

Speaking of which.

Kryachik, Kvachik and Kruchik. Hinko, Dinko and Vinko. Qui, Quo, Qua. Etc. (Click on the map to make it big enough to read.)

All about what many in the film industry call Shithole Color Grading. They don’t like it, but they have to do it anymore, because otherwise we don’t know what country is being shot up here. We’ve been trained: this normal color is our place, and this other color is a shithole country, hence the term… It’s odd that I will go along with the conventional spelling for shithole, even though you think /shith-ohl/ when you see it. It still bugs me every time someone –a cartoonist usually– spells god damn it /goddamnit/, because that looks like /god dam nit/. If you take out the spaces it should become /goddammit/, goddammit. And homeowner flashes the word meow, so should be hyphenated to home-owner. Okay, from now on: shit-hole. Fixed. Also it’s ree-NAY-sunss, not REN-uh-zonss. And kuh-REEB-ee-un, for the people there: the Carib (kuh-REEB).

Whereas, no problems with the colors here.

Computer animated old painting. And scroll down for the next one too; just as good. (You might have to click the sound on.) (via NagOnTheLake)

My head hurts from /crying/ after the last little bit of this one. So good. It was awhile ago. I hope they’re still happy together and didn’t just start fighting right away and never be in the same orchestra together anymore because all men are bastards and all women are crazy. I hope they get old together and never get sick, and just get more comfortable and sweet with each other until they, I dunno, evaporate together into the sky, but how likely is that? Maybe that’s why we cry at weddings.

Electric guitar amplifiers of the olden days. Think of all the guitars gently weeping through these lovely old cloth-covered plywood boxes that you could cook an egg on because of the hot vacuum tubes inside. Here, do this: close your eyes, remember turning on an old table radio. Wait a moment. Smell that? That’s grease and dust from the air sublimating off the surface of the vacuum tubes. I love that smell. When my grandparents got out of the restaurant business they gave me the record player amplifier and it /reeked/ of that great smell, probably because of all the flour and cigaret smoke and pepperoni and stuff that had wafted through it over the years. You’d turn it on and it would all come back all over again, like the 1940s baseball games that came from the little boy’s haunted radio in that Harlan Ellison story whose title escapes me at the moment.

Julien Baker – Hardline.

See the space station with your own eyes.

How we get bicycles.

A happy song and dance about jumper cables. (via Everlasting Blort)

WAP in metal.

Recalls the Darling Mermaid Darlings. But everything about women dressed up for a swimming show does.

The lost sound.

A whole page of then-and-now-wipe collections. (via NagOnTheLake)

Know me by my instrument.

The people who were shot: Who they were, with pictures.

It is omniscient narration all the way up.

Nuns with knees. Knee nuns.

And there you have it.

1970s French science-fiction comic book art.

Art. (via Everlasting Blort)

Happy. (via Everlasting Blort)


The birds. (via NagOnTheLake)

Uh-oh, he says.

Oh, so cute. And he eats the walls and doors too. He can’t help it. It’s in his nature.

“She wansa fight I’ll give ‘er a fight!” The big one built like a fridge got the worst of it, I think, but she doesn’t think that. She thinks she won, and she wants to go back and win some more, and she’s the one who started it by showing up to make trouble in the first place. The other one wasn’t even the one she was mad at. That’s the problem with situations like this: I watched the video, I read the whole story, and I still don’t understand it, except that bigotry and family pride is involved. Bigotry between Gypsies and crackers in this case. This is West Side Story (Puerto Ricans and Poles), Pizza My Heart (rival restaurant families), Warm Bodies (mortal girl, zombie boy): it’s Romeo and Juliette. “Two families, both alike in dignity, in fair [Wherever], where we lay our scene. From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”

This is only 40 seconds long; you can hold your breath that long. It’s like the driver of the car considers his options for a moment and then goes, “Ehh, she’ll be all right. Let her get up by herself,” and continues on as if nothing happened.

What a dynamic photograph. It reminds me of Russel Crowe lifting the boy by his hand up over the back of the ship after the boy’s death-defying brave mission, shouting happily in the boy’s face, “/Tell/ me that wasn’t fun!” Skiing towed by a galloping horse, out of all the crazy dangerous things people do– I would do this. Even after the summer between 7th and 8th grade, tearing my leg open in a bloody 7-shape on the broken off steering wheel of the gravity cart, crashing into a Corvair coming around the turn the other way, from being towed downhill by an extension cord behind the neighbor kid’s bicycle. It hurt like hell, and it took 40 stitches, and worse than that it was mortifying, but /tell me that wasn’t fun/.×800/media/img/photo/2021/03/photos-week-1/a11_1231563266/original.jpg

The exact opposite of that. This is just idiotic.

And the further opposite of /that/. I don’t know how much of this is real, but the finished product is very dreamlike flying.

The paper.

Balls, said the queen. Ping pong balls.

Neat vehicles. The Birdseye Pea Car and hundreds of other things flickr’s algorithm knows you’ll like if you like that.

Snake-cloud, telegraph pole, railroad tracks. Rampant centipede, fallen ladder, flying tire iron. Teller of Penn and Teller telekinesing a Rhine card image onto a blackboard.


Art. (via Everlasting Blort)

Art. This is like what William Gibson and Bruce Sterling I imagined video to be in /The Difference Engine/.

And Corgis. The periodic squeaky-toy punctuation is the heart of it. It’s a complex nearly choreographed interaction between nearly identical pets –I’m trying to stop from saying /both alike in dignity/ but, sure. Like with the wedding aftermath, see above, I think here it’s something like this: “/I/ am the boss.” “You are not!” *squeak* “You still here?” “/I’m/ not leaving, /you/ are leaving!” “I hate you!” “/I/ hate /you/!” *squeak* …But compared to the wedding, the little dogs are more– um– I dunno, I don’t have much of a vocabulary, just: Even with brains no bigger than a hazelnut, with the dogs, this isn’t impending crippling carnage, it’s a conversation. They’d be /horrified and miserably sorry/ if someone got hurt, not elated. They’ll be going in to eat dinner together later out of the same metal dish. They’re fine.

Hard reset.


Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-03-12) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back awhile.

A lot of dead people this show. Nearly the whole first hour. There’s a lot there, but the part that mainly sticks in my mind was learning that Lenny Laks, who just died Tuesday, had been the one first to come upon his long-time music-mate John Chamberlain dead on the highway in 2013 and then four months later he was also the one who found other long-time music-mate Antonia Lamb dead. I repeat what one of Lenny’s eulogists said about that: “Jesus! Poor Lenny!” See Lenny, Antonia and John, above, at a Hit & Run Theater event in a more perpendicular time for them. Lenny was a pretty big guy. You know how big a bass guitar is. Notice how on him it looks like a child-size regular guitar.

Correction: Nick Wilson read the above and wrote:

>It was Steve Davidson, not Lenny Laks, who found John Chamberlin’s body back on June 4, 2013. Someone got that mixed up. Steve told me some details back at the time, and I just phoned him to make sure I got the details right.

>Steve and JC happened to be in Santa Rosa at the same time, and saw each other at Trader Joe’s. Later, as Steve drove toward home he came upon John’s car pulled off of 128 right at the Mendocino County line sign. A CHP was there, and Steve stopped to see what was happening. JC was already unconscious and slumped over his steering wheel. The CHP officer said he had spoken with Jayce, who told him he was feeling very tired and pulled over to rest. He said he intended to continue onward after a rest. But he quickly got worse and lost conciousness while the officer was there, shortly before Steve arrived.

>The CHP called for an ambulance. Steve and CHP got JC out of the car and tried to give him CPR, but he was gone. The ambulance crew confirmed he had died, but they couldn’t transport his body until a coroner arrived on the scene. It took 3 hours for that, with Steve, CHP and a tow truck all waiting at the scene.

>Steve and JC were the closest of pals. They had played music together from 1970 onward, starting with Cat Mother. Their last gig was at the Mendocino Film Festival with Peter Barg and Franny Leopold’s latin music group, The Cumbaleros, just a week before John passed. Steve remembered that JC was in poor health at that time, and could barely climb the steps to the stage.

>I was a buddy of John’s too, and when I first arrived in 1970 used to share his bathroom and kitchen at the Elk compound while I slept in my VW camper in the driveway. I was 7 days older than JC. What a talented, smart, and caring guy. A genius at his graphic art and a very good musician, first on mandolin, and later on guitar and vocals.

>When JC passed I started a John Chamberlin Memorial Group on Facebook, where people could share memories, photos and tributes. After a few months, seeing that other popular locals had also passed, I repurposed the group, changed the name to the Mendocino Coast Memorial Group, and opened it up to honoring and remembering all of the locals who have passed. It currently has over 700 members, but it’s public, so anyone can go to it and see what’s there. Right now there are many posts about Lenny Laks. If you scroll down far enough you’ll find the original 2013 posts about John. Or you could use the search function to find posts mentioning him. Here’s the link.

>And here’s a link to a photo of John and Steve performing with The Cumbaleros on May 28 at the 2013 film festival. It was about a week before he passed.

Marco here again. Thanks, Nick! Okay, moving on. Here’s a fresh batch of not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right:

A sweeping bird’s eye view of a place with everything: bar/restaurant, bowling alley, theater. Add a radio station and you’re looking at my fantasy of what to build with a lottery payout, except the bar would be a soda and ice-cream bar. And the place would have a bathroom. You have to have a bathroom in a bowling alley or a rollerskating rink, for kids to smoke cigarets and for people to comb their hair with water from the sink. This kind of shot was impossible just a short while ago. Toy drone tech has literally leaped and soared in very recent years.

Stunningly beautifully edited weather.

Cleans up nice. Squeegee the dividers left and right.

And Chernobyl after all the excitement, healthy, natural, full of wildlife, by many measures better than ever. Except for the demonic kernel at the center. Stay away from there, children and squirrels.

Further starlings.

Artistic starlings.

Scrape art.


And other birds. “When people have the freedom to do what they want, they usually imitate each other.”

Ghost bird. It has a dignified air and every right to think it’s invisible; it very nearly is. Its egg, though. I hope the people left that alone. Oh! It only just occurred to me: was it straining to lay that egg the whole time, nose in the air, motionlessly squinching and pushing? Was it surreptitiously, silently laying an egg as big as its whole body? Or is it somebody else’s egg.

Her squeezebox brings all the cows to the gate.

Black and white minimalist photography.

Randy Rainbow’s latest.

I’m in. Hurry up.

Gears. This process of adding to it till it breaks, solving that sort of break then adding till another thing breaks, solving that… This is how the new (unmanned) rocketship projects work, why they crash so much and don’t seem to be discouraged. It’s always been a cheap shortcut for developing new engines and machines of all kinds.×1-gear-chain/614182/

Simple animations to show how the different kinds of engines work.

Human energy they thought you could store in a pickle jar.

Meeting ended by host. (Hover text: “I can’t wait until I’m fully vaccinated and can send messages in all-caps again.”) NOT WAITING. DOING IT NOW.

A German dance.

The old soft-shoe. This is like twenty years after he was Scarecrow in /Wizard of Oz/. My grandfather would dance like this in the restaurant kitchen. He was shorter and more powerfully built than Ray Bolger, but could glide. (via Everlasting Blort)

Charlie Chaplain, the roll dance.

Knee dancers. (Also German.)

Tucker Carlson, a giant smug racist human thumb with a face painted on it and a plastic wig.

Lynda Barry’s drawing show for drawers. My favorite cartoon character of hers has always been Romantic Rahoolio the Latin Lovar.

Was it the weird spy-lawyer who worked for KZYX who was the one who did this ridiculous psychological comic-terror project back in Vietnam? I wrote to the people who told me that years ago but they haven’t written back yet. I think his name starts with H.

I don’t trust my barber. (via b3ta)



Hammer. From the guy who brought you the karate-chop hand axe.

Gimmick costume band’s /Barracuda/. Pretty good.

Automated random Jazz drum ambiance.

Amor alien (alien love), by Laura Molina. (It’s a self portrait. The man is meant to be Dave Stevens.) Those are the Radio Free Earth colors, by the way. Back when several of my projects were under the Radio *Free Earth title (little radios stations, the teevee show, posters for Mendo Movies, etc.) I painted everything involved in highly contrasting fluorescent green and bright red. See now good it looks. (*The apostrophe ironically qualified it. Biff Rose said, “Free doesn’t mean anything unless you attach it to something: Free beer. Free hamburger.”)

“One could say it is lettuce. It is not lettuce. /You’re/ the one that’s being evasive.” (via Everlasting Blort)

Sex madness. (52 min.)

Oh, for fuck sake. Hell yes it’s the envy talking when I exclaim over how this demented elderly putz is a gazillionaire from people sending him all their money for this shit. Look, here I am curing your cancer by squeezing my eyes shut. Private jets, diamond mines, a hundred radio and television stations, and they don’t even have to pay taxes on anything because Jeebus.

Television from literally another world.

Analog video synthesis. This very machine made the video graphic of the plan to attack the Death Star near the very end of the first Star Wars movie.

Modular analog video synthesizer rack, each module labeled for its function. /War of the Ants/, for example, and /Marble Index/. Hover over the individual modules for power consumption and price (/Visual Cortex/ module needs 5 watts and costs $849. /War of the Ants/ uses half that power and coincidentally costs half as much.) In the middle-late 1980s I made something vastly simpler and less wonderful than this, but still pretty neat, to control an oscilloscope trace or a laser, one of whose functions was /Rotating Duck Foot/, just a step away from /Reciprocating Battleships/. This one, though– use both scroll bars or you’re only seeing a little bit of it. In use, there would be an attractive rat’s nest of wires going all over the front, between those holes.

Funeral beatboxing.

Three minutes of tsunami info.

Trailer for a new game.


Everything you need to know about inkjet printers. (Whereas everything you need to know about laser printers is, if it won’t print because it says it’s out of toner, find the clear little plastic window on the side of the toner cartridge and cover it with a piece of black tape. Shake the cartridge and put it back in. It’ll print 500 more pages.)

“The rejected script for episode nine of the Skywalker saga (Star Wars: Duel of the Fates), written by Colin Trevorrow and Derek Connolly, leaked online a year ago.” Andrew Winegarner worked all this time to make it into a graphic novel to read for free online all on a single scroll-page. The text is big enough; you can enjoy this on your phone. (via Neatorama)

The original Star Wars retrofitted.

Art deco laundry vans of the 1930s. (via NagOnTheLake, Everlasting Blort, and more)

What did she /think/ would happen?

Probably she thought it would be something like this.

From lots of ice to loss of ice.

Rerun: Art of the gag.

Ahem. This is painful because I have actually talked like this because it’s funny. There’s a term related to doing that: making fun of something cringeworthy by doing it. The term, um, hold on… Yeah, it’s the Law of Goats. It’s too bad, too, because it’s still funny but… Oh, never mind. And if you try to explain it, it just adds a fractal landscape of further goats.

These people screwed a toy quadcopter into a tiny Faraday cage and flew it between Tesla coils. This is a lot like what happens when a jetliner is struck by lightning and is safe. Screw your courage to the sticking place.

Sounds like a plan.

How to add a banjo-ish track to the mix when you haven’t got one.


They were just making sure. This guy was probably trouble, and you never know.

Rerun: The song in every musical that no-one likes.

I love them. I wish the sound was better.

And these ones too. It doesn’t really need the distorted electric guitar sounding trombone, but it doesn’t hurt.

Sonny Boy Williamson – Keep It To Yourself. (via Everlasting Blort)

Joshua King.

Air horn gun.

Balletic ice maintenance.

In the cold playing Coldplay. Snow on the fingers and strings and dogs.

Who wouldn’t want this? And if it had an electric motor and could go freeway speed… It would be a menace; other people would crash, from not being able to take their eyes off it.

Visual tricks.

Come back!

I think they’re both just really drunk.

Say your band’s name is Cannibal Corpse, and you’re having a meeting about who you should get to do your album cover art.

The fast thief flash-fried thick fish.

Letters from 1946. Get ready to notice that one of your eyebrows is stuck in the up position.

How to properly trim for sale a slab of muscle and fat the size of a briefcase. Over the years I’d puzzled over what a brisket is, having heard Jews use the term in movies. I knew it was some kind of meat food. It never occurred to me to look it up. “With a little bit of time and the right cooking method, even the toughest piece of meat can be made delicious. Brisket, which comes from the breast of the cow, is a great example; it’s one of the least tender cuts of beef, but braised, smoked, or slowly roasted, it’s rendered soft and satisfying with incredible flavor.” (20 min.)

Monolink – The Prey.

Every piano has 88 of these delicate Rube Goldberg machines in it, made out of little sticks and felt and hinges made of tiny bits of brass. And somehow they last a hundred years of being banged on and whacked around. Amazing. (via Cliff Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

And Max Forsetter sent this link. It’s about the things we throw away rather than just fix it.


Netiquette for stroonzes.

    “Never buy pants or a car in the rain.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-03-05) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back awhile.

The little bit you hear at the beginning of the recording is the very end minute of an NPR piece by David Rakoff (R.I.P.) and Jonathan Goldstein about written correspondence between Gregor Samsa (also R.I.P.) (of Kafka’s /The Metamorphosis/) and Dr. Seuss (R.I.P.), which you can look up using those very terms and learn about, or merely hear all of  just here:

Also here’s a fresh batch of not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right. (I’m not up to double-checking all the links right now. I used to even set each one individually to open a new tab, which added like twenty minutes or more to this process, right at the point where I’m /so done and over with/ this particular show and ready to put on the spaghetti and meatballs and start working on next week’s. Now I am loathe to even spellcheck. If something’s wrong, though, let me know and I’ll swat it with the electric moth-exploding badminton racket I got in Japantown for $2 a couple of years ago that actually still works. With the original battery, yet. Juanita and I were in San Francisco for some other reason and went in there, and…it was a phantasmagorical brightly lit vast tight maze of delights. A water-filled bird-sound whistle with a clock in the side. Propeller beanie-caps where you press both ears and the top whirs off and up into the air. Brands of candy that you haven’t seen since 1964. Bluetooth napkin rings with dental floss inside. A zigzag pair of pliers to ply around corners. Levels you can adjust to exact angles other than level. Now I wanta go back there, but I’m sure it’ll be like in Twilight Zone, where there isn’t even space for a store in that place, much less the right store, and you ask around and nobody knows what you’re talking about, but the camera pulls back and up so there are two space aliens with giant bulbous butt-shaped ice-cream-cone heads, seen from behind in a fog, silently watching you on the interocitor.) Anyway:


Damn you, bourgeoisie!

Historical side-eye. (via Everlasting Blort)

The sounds of this event from the different angles: Voices of interest, amusement, dismay or warning, crunching wood, scrape of metal. It reminds me of the scene in /Galaxy Quest/ where the ship scrapes fingernails on a blackboard, getting out of the space dock.

Put the phone down, put both hands of the wheel, pull over safely and /then/ go nuts weeping and loving that adorable puppy.

Key and Peele mouth sounds battle.

Ow… okay, but… ow. Ow.


The cursed generator.

Babushka cats. (via Everlasting Blort)

Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain plays Miserlou.

10,000 harmonics.

Madonn’, Vinny, get in there. Stop bein’ such a stroonz.

Fretless funk, Sean Angus Watson.

Patricia JANEČKOVÁ: “Les oiseaux dans la charmille”

Russian Irish dance. The flitter-flutter thing they do around 2:40-2:50– I think that’s the Russian ballet part.

Mistake waltz.

Ten levels of sleight of hand.

Ze Frank on crypsis.

Lost Property Office. (Cardboard stop-o-mation.)

Roy Clark died in 2018.

The fabulous lirone. (11 min.)

The $20 one with the corroded old strings actually is fine. Perfectly adequate.

Teevee used to be very different from the way it is now.

Nearly-but-not-quite-lost teevee show intros of the 1950s. /”Hey, Mulligan!”/

This probably won’t show up nice in your screen font, but: ΤΣΙΦΤΕΤΕΛΙΑ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΟΥ ΚΙΝΗΜΑΤΟΓΡΑΦΟΥ.

Miss Cheesecake of 1951.

All the colors of the 1956 Buick.

Mafia talks ruined. “Oh, no. Oh, no, Andy, that’s terrible! Now he looks like a sleeping Musketeer!”


The old age rejuvenator centrifuge.

A gun whose ammunition is your own instantly frozen tears, so you can shoot the person who made you cry.

When he farts it goes /RING/.

How to make latex glove bagpipes.

Oh. Right.

It reminds me of the fight between Captain Kirk and and the Gorn. Or any Captain Kirk fight, for that matter. (via b3ta)

Time-lapse Colorado skies.

A plasma space hurricane.

Those are powerful magnets fastened to the ends of the battery, and the track is all bare wire coils.

A nice sample of some of the fine short subjects on the Dust channel.

Fireflies. (via Neatorama)



A lost year.

And how to delete your account. In whatever. Except that one, and that one, and those ones there. Those are forever. This is going on your /permanent record/, young man.


Waving the bloody kimono.

    “Did not the Abbe say: ‘Lost is that man who sees a beautiful woman descending a noble staircase’, and were not both these ingredients here, and ready to her hand? What else but a staircase could so perfectly set off the jewel she had made of Elfine?”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-02-26) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back awhile.

Besides all that, here’s a fresh batch of not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Zoom way in and drag the picture around. This. Is. Mars. (kick)

Competitive trumpeters.


And this guy. (via EverlastingBlort)

Irises explaining themselves in iris time.

The tears. They burn.

Feminine hygeine product ad playlist.

Hysteria on Stylophone.

“…leaving them curled up in the feeble position.”


Vogon poetry circle.

Baron Munchausen’s dream.

Cat trap.

Water cats.

This is not a drill. (or) You know the drill. “Ahhh, you hear that cut? Ohhh, it’s drillin’ so good.” For people who really like drilling, and especially /watching/ powerful wet machines drill and be drilled. This reminds me of the beautiful video for Bjork’s /All Is Full Of Love/.

Rerun: Bjork – All Is Full Of Love.

Before and after: what Pluto looked like 25 years ago next to what it looks like now. Cleans up nicely.


Hazel Scott.



Never gonna burn you up. Well, that happened. Still, never gonna put you down. Ow.

The fabulous Baronton Sisters. Hooray!

I looked at all of them. I’m not ashamed. Entirely SFW.


Ghost town.

People living in pumpkins on the moon, for protection.

Who has enough money to ride in an airplane? Statistically, almost nobody. But just for a moment imagine you might one day be going someplace in an airplane. Here are some things to know. He doesn’t get to mentioning how much safer you are in a crash if you’re sitting in the very back. That’s where people survive when only one or two or three survive. But the information about cracker selection and voting on the position of the window shade is useful, as is the demonstration of why not to recline the seat.

And again with the light pillars? Yes, Sven, again.


E questo!

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-02-19) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back awhile.

What you hear at the beginning of the recording is just the very end of a presentation by linguist and accent expert Eric Singer and his team giving a tour of U.S. accents. That’s here.

Just about every time, after everything’s over and I’ve signed off and I’m so exhausted after working on the show all day and talking on the radio all night all hopped up on decaffeinated green tea and soda crackers (and sometimes chocolate covered raisins) that my very skin is buzzing, I wince over how at some point in the show I started explaining something and went down a ridiculous path with it and, lost and embarrassed, moved on. That’s okay. This time it was about people who are too picky about proper speech, for whom it isn’t enough that they understand exactly what you said, they want you to say it the way /they/ want you to say it. I thought of a great short essay by Stephen Fry on the subject, mentioned it and, on the way to say why, mentioned his part in a movie he was in, in order to remember his name, but found I couldn’t recall the title of the movie either, so, oy. “It starts with V,” I said, “Verdure? Verdigris? [no, red rather than green] Vendetta? No…” Close, though. Too close. “Natalie Portman is in it. It has that poem about the Gunpowder Plot. /Remember, remember, the fifth of November./ The mask thing…” Guy Fawkes mask, sure, it comes to me /now/, as well as the movie poster with the giant bloody V on it. V for Vendetta. It’s a terrific story, even though, as usual for movies, the movie is like the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the Wikipedia plot of the book, if not quite a travesty and two shams of a mockery.

Besides all that, here’s a fresh batch of not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Fantasy and science fiction artist Rowena Morrill is dead. A particular book cover she painted comes to mind. The book was about a character named Lafayette O’Leary, an interdimensional traveler whose method of moving to other worlds involved a magical spell, a particular frame of mind, and a can of sardines. On the cover, O’Leary is flying on a magic carpet with Princess What’s-her-name, whose decolletage draws the eye. There is no doubt she is a mammal. One time back in the Mendocino Commentary days (thirty and more years ago) Judy Brown saw that on top of a box of my books and smirked? appreciated it? I said, “I like that. I like the way the flesh hangs on the bones. Look at her arms.” She said, “I do too.” I miss Judy Brown. She, like Rowena Morrill, was an art elf.

How it works.

How it ends.

Sounds of ice cracking. (via b3ta)

Sounds of metal crumpling. (via b3ta)

Yma Sumac, the Peruvian Songbird, sings /Chuncho/. It’s a lie that she was just from Brooklyn and her real name was Amy Camus, (Yma Sumac backwards). She was born Zoila Augusta Emperatriz Chávarri del Castillo on September 10, 1922 in Ichocan, an indigenous village in Cajamarca, Peru, and her vocal range went from low foghorn all the way up to fingernails on a blackboard, which you hear in this recording, whose technology was unequal to the task, but they did the best they could.

Tabletop Marx generator.

Il Showdown a Rio Jawbone.

Pill bucket. Escape. Vendetta guy problem, Florida retirement apartments, Major Hoople (Slavic Douglas Roycroft), etc.

A century of UFO sightings. Why do you suppose they mainly only mess with the U.S.? Trailer parks, maybe.


Little Barb.


Ice capades.

The scene in /X-Men: Apocalypse/ where Quicksilver saves everyone.

Neither the time nor the place.

There can be only one. “Do you have any idea how long it took for me to infiltrate this group? Do you think I’m gonna roll over for some falsetto-ass mo-fo? Pshh.” That’s a good bad thing to call somebody who you don’t like. Some falsetto-ass mo-fo.

“I have got a friend who is a spiritual medium and she wants to go and take a look up there to see if she can feel anything,” the hiker said.

Moving like this will catch on. Why /should/ it be just for video games?

All the sexy diseases.

I can explain.

How fairies fly. “These men toil that the girls may spin.”

Good advice: “You can leave your head on.”

Tiny taiko.

I’m not sure why, but this reminds me of a public radio show that started with a guy singsonging something like –in a voice like the 7-Up-the-UnCola ad: “Thees eez SAH-vim-bee BAH-bim-bee weeth ETH-no pop!” Or, during the Gulf War, there was an oily-sounding British newsguy who always introduced his report from where he was staying in a hotel very far from any actual fighting, in Nicosia. “This is [Something Something] in Nicosia.” The say he said it so British-like, like smarmily sculpting a mouthful of taffy: /Nee-coh-SYEE-ah/. I would add the way NPR’s Maria Hinojosa pronounces her name, but it is her own name, after all. It comes from places in the Spanish-speaking world where fennel grows, or once grew. Hinojosa means fennel, which is to licorice as carob is to chocolate. Maria means the sea. Do what you want to with this information, make it work for you.

Ev’rybody in the whole cell block, it’s snowing on the Dome of the Rock.

Japanese bullet trains in the snow.

“Now I see it.”

iPhone acapella.

Wendy Carlos.

How it ends.

Midwest Siri.

Laurel and Hardy: Atoll K, recut to be good. (113 min.)

Don’t worry about a thing.


How a motion picture camera works.

Duck! (I wonder what would happen if one of these ducks suddenly remembered that they can fly.)

Topiary. (via Everlasting Blort)

Gretchen’s wedding dance.

This makes me think of the movie /Annihilation/. A truly alien lifeform of unknowable motives is changing creatures and plants and people and the very Earth in a vast ever-widening circle to, uh, perform an experiment? terraform? colonize? conquer? Spoiler: In the last instant before the closing credits Natalie Portman’s irises go weird, so she’s probably one of them now. Is that good or bad? The swamp in /Annihilation/ looked a little like this:

Having not seen this movie I’m not sure exactly what deeper issue is going on here, but I can imagine, and I like it.

Russian flappers flapping in the 1920s. (via NagOnTheLake) (My grandmother was a flapper. Not a famous one, but she could certainly flap.)

Rerun: Crying about this

And this:

“Formidable indeed is its nose.”

If Asian people acted like white people in restaurants.

A map of where all the Baltic icebreakers are right now. At first it seems like they’re all piled up on top of each other, but zoom in, they’re really not. It’s a big place. (via NagOnTheLake)

What it sounds like inside each of those ships.

And beautiful footage of  the Yamal, a 75,000 horsepower (!) Soviet nuclear icebreaker ship. The phrase /as inevitable as the tide/ comes to mind.


Stop thinking that.

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-02-12) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back awhile.

The beginning of the recording has the very end of then-93-year-old Tom Sitter’s appearance at a Moth event whose theme was Love Hurts. Here’s the rest of that story.

Besides all that, here’s a fresh batch of not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Chinese Church of Almighty God (Eastern Lightning) Riverdance group. “The group’s core tenet is that Jesus Christ has returned to Earth and is presently a Chinese woman.”


Pirate piano dance.

A dance to spring.

A dance to yargle, bargle /and/ blargh.

Houses in Florida.


Such a hurry.

Meanwhile back in Florida.

Art. (via Everlasting Blort)

Miss Welder.

It gets better.

What it means. (This is really what happened between Freud and Jung.)

The birds.

Wild love. I feel like saying that this is to Alex Bosworth’s /Chip Chip Chaw/ as /Event Horizon/ (the film) is to /2001: A Space Odyssey/, but Chip Chip Chaw is pretty dark (its original title when Alex wrote it in the 1980s was /Teeth and Claws/).

Not bad.

“Once you know how good they taste you won’t ask any questions.”

I love this, though I want him to stop poking at it with his gargantuan asteroid of a finger. I know it’s love and care, but the bird is so fragile.

Mechanical fingers.

Honestly, this is very little weirder than any regular makeup has always looked to me. But if I had to choose one of these people to be my car mechanic it’s the Swoosie Kurtz-like one in pink hair and pink wide-neck shirt. She just looks like she’d glance casually at the car, instantly know exactly what to fix, fix it in ten minutes and charge you $35. Also her ears are interesting, like elf ears or little spaceship fins. And she did the eyebrows in 90W with a screwdriver just on a lark one day and thought it was funny, so it became her look. Also the guy two spaces down, with /Jongfluffy Torvichea/ for eyebrows could be her helper, patching tires, detailing, that sort of thing. I just don’t naturally trust any of the others, going by my gut about their mug shots.

(Little-known fact about Swoosie Kurtz: very long tongue. I found a photograph of her lapping the underside of her chin, which prompted me to look for one of her licking the end of her nose, but no, though looking for it led to the discovery that there are, of course, hundreds if not thousands of web pages devoted to people with long tongues. Why, there are people in this world who can touch their own eye with their tongue.)

Also at least the white model girls look abused. Clearly they’ve been crying. Oh, the black girl took her sunglasses off; she’s been crying too. They’ve all been crying. They’re all way too young to be crying about their choices in life. Perhaps something horrible is being done to them between photographs. It might be just hunger. That’s easy to fix.

Of states that hate states, which states do states hate?

Your Name Here.

*Sound of sharply breathing in* (drowned out by the motor and the wind). It’s not even their cat; it’s the airport cat.

“That’s when you go /phew/,” Hubbard says.

What’s wrong with people that this is a coffee machine?×2036+0+0/resize/1508×1920!/format/webp/quality/90/

I liked some of the other Doctors but David Tennant was your favorite Doctor too. Admit it.

Speaking of which– rerun: Axis of Awesome Four Chord Song. This just always makes me happy when I stumble across it.

Top secret.

Fred Astaire plays drums along with a record on the console record player in his bedroom.

Odd new kind of visual search engine.

All these years later, how well do you know the lyrics to Piano Man?



Tilt-shift Romania.

Tilt-shift Bulgaria.

Messier 83 in your choice of resolution. (via Gizmodo)


It really puts things in perspective, doesn’t it. And after billions of years it isn’t even a quarter of the way over. Nothing we do or don’t do will affect this motion. Though our destabilization of climate might careen the thin surface veneer into a runaway acid hothouse like Venus or another Snowball Earth scenario. And by the time the mantle stabilizes and the crust plates are no longer floating around, the sun will have expanded into a red giant, swallowing all the inner planets, including Earth, anyway. Enjoy your cardboard health food.

Video of this week’s 100-vehicle iced freeway pile-up in Texas.

I never saw most of these movies, so I have only an idea of what the characters might be emoting about, and almost all came out since the 1980s, but this video is pretty close to what my ten-year-old self in 1968 imagined the drug experience might be like. Now that everyone including children is on drugs all the time anymore, no-one has to wonder that. They’ve taken all the guesswork out of it.

“Please consult your doctor or other healthcare professional before starting EPHEMERALL(tm).”

The nail violin.

“I’m Pachelbel Potato Pail.” “I’m Drizzlin’ Flamenco-Baton.”

How to deal with bullies.

Underwater photography winners. (via MissCellania) (and scroll down.)


The rule is, however you put your hair is goofy to people in the future, /but only if you think it’s cool now./ That’s how you can tell if someone has come back from the future: the line of their mouth quirks in a quick sine wave and they try to look anywhere but your head. You might go /What?/ but they’re not allowed to say anything about it, to avoid precipitating a timestorm paradox. They’re just here to do their job. Get in, do the job, get out. Do no harm.

A compilation of massive explosions. “Oh, my God!” “Holy shit!” and so on: what people say, or rather shriek, when the world is coming apart around them.

And Shaolin mantis.


Traish LaRue and the Jewish space lasers.

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-02-05) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back awhile.

Besides all that, here’s a playlist of not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Tap dance.

Pole dance. There must be bearings at the top and bottom. (via TYWKIWDBI)

How we get Korean cake.

Downfall GameStop.

A teacher.

Pythagorean theorem demonstrated with water. (via TYWKIWDBI)

Art. (via NagOnTheLake)

Art (via Everlasting Blort)


The race. (via b3ta)

Microsoft flight simulator tour.


Art. (via TYWKIWDBI)



Mirror room.


Way overpowered drone toy, like a giant prehistoric wasp from hell. The action starts at 1:40.

What Florida Man did on your birthday.

Moon. Also not flat.

Happy astronauts.×675/p01gkwdc.jpg

Spacetime fabric softener.

Bobcat v. rattlesnake.


How owls owl. Superbly. The superb owl.

Oh, incredible.

Tower. (19 min.)

A map of Florida in the shape of an L on his forehead.


In a world where cats sound like Don LaFontaine.

I’m okay until the guy starts jumping around on the edge of the skyscraper roof with a fisheye lens. I just about swallowed my tongue.

Metalized preacher speech.

Cartoon people.

He’s getting really good at it. And the webbed legs look clunky but they make it all work so much better.

Hammock face.

If only.

And the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil.


A lot to unpack.

     “We spent 738 billion dollars on defense in 2020, and the Capitol building was taken in 10 minutes by Duck Dynasty and a guy in a deerskin bikini.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-29) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back awhile.

Besides all that, here’s an overstuffed pillowcase of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Yes, your Blueness.

Light box art.

Rerun: 72 in 7.

About stop-motion animation.

Clockworkish trombone dance.


The record for short landing and takeoff.

Another fascinating video artifact.

Peaceful Studio Ghibli scenes.

It looks pretty good. Slow and calm.

Plowing snow.

Plowin’ rhymes.

Allakazam! (sic sp) Now you see him, now you don’t, because he is dead.

Sleight of paw.

Great race.

Art. (via b3ta)

A.I. makes several attempts to finish /All Star/ given the first verse.


Holy ghost people. (52 min.)

Faces of the riot.

Rerun: Leave Me Alurn. (via b3ta) Quinn Enestved wrote: “I want both the urn and the spikes.”

“With a big bow-wow, tow-row-row, fol de rol de ri do day.”

Star Trek Original Series recreated set tour. The videography is an example of a cameraperson /caressing/ the subject.

Pre-COVID chat line. (via b3ta)

Lowest voice in the world.


Jazz refrigeration unit.

Rerun: Music for 6 drummers and apartment.

Why not to bite a charged phone battery. Wait till it’s at zero percent before you bite it.

La Baby Sister. Capitulo 14. (Volume is very low.) “Con engaños, Giovanny consigue un buen empleo en el que su familia tienen puestas todas las esperanzas. Entre tanto, los esfuerzos de Fabiana y Daniel por ocultar las fotografías son en vano y Marta podría descubrir la verdad.” (By trickery, Giovanny gets a good job in which his family has all hopes. Meanwhile, Fabiana and Daniel’s efforts to hide the photographs are in vain and Marta may discover the truth.)

How we get deluxe virtual chickenwire. At this rate it makes a 100-foot virtual roll every two minutes. (via Everlasting Blort)

A possible use for chickenwire. You’d have like an umbrella of it that would come down all around you, down to the ground, in case you meet someone like this. And electrify it.

Mandala men.

Satellite photos made of mixing paint and ink. And nice music.

“He told her that a good deed is always more powerful than evil magic. She should never forget that.”

Curling marmots. (via Everlasting Blort)

Art. (via Everlasting Blort)



Oh, for fuck sake! $420,000 for this steampunk prop watch. It’s neat to look at, sure, and one can fondly imagine wearing it to the Explorers’ Club at the Dickens Faire, but you could just as easily make one out of bits of toys from the dollar store that would pass an arm’s-length inspection and keep time too. I’ll never be able to retire, and even by the time I’m dead at 75 or so I will not have earned $420,000 in my entire life, and not for want of trying. Also it looks like a cross between a truncated dick-and-balls glyph, a 35mm camera and a beetlebug. The blue version /hints/ at how much cooler it would look if it lit up from inside with a blue LED, but they didn’t think of including a 2-cent LED for only $420,000, did they. I don’t mean to be critical; I’m sure they’re very proud of their $420,000 whatchacallit– which is what /I/ will call it after I make one from bits of toys from the dollar store: the Watch-a-callit. Juanita has a friend who makes cool hats with things very like this stuck all over them, that the man spends days hot-gluing together, and they cost like $100, and that seems reasonable, because then you have a hat, goggles and a key-fob flashlight too. I’m sorry, I should let it alone, but– imagine: which would you rather have, this watch or your own whole middle-market radio station to run for fun. This watch or a nice house and your next ten cars? This watch or four hundred twenty thousand dollars.

“What’s this? A lady’s watch-bracelet? I didn’t figure you for a mollycoddler.” “Sir, my mother gave it to me and I wear it because I like it!” “Spunk! That’s the ticket! Well, form up a line, boys, we’re going on a hike.” -Baden-Powell and Bob Tucker, time-traveling Boy Scout

Here are some other attractive wristwatches the MB&F company carves out of sapphire meteorites and the skull of an owl.

What’s wrong with Tanya?

And oy.


Almost like being in love.

     “The human fascination with fun has led to many tragedies in your short but violent history. One wonders how your race has survived having so much fun.” -Tuvok

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-22) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


As well as all the regular MOTA features and surprises and what we in the industry call the droll slog, the show ends with a Firesign Theater recording from 1973 that I, a card-carrying Firesign Theater afficionado [say uh-fiss-ee-oh-NAH-doh], did not until recently know even existed: /TV or Not TV/. (It’s not the entire troupe but mainly Phil Proctor and Peter Bergman.) In case you wanta skip straight to that, it starts about seven hours and ten minutes into the show and runs forty minutes. Bonus activity: Simultaneously play this silent 8mm film of Proctor and Bergman doing a later on-stage version of /TV or Not TV/ for enhanced simulated verisimilitude and further reclamation:

And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only the above MOTA show but also other ones going back awhile.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly sack of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

The graceful ethereal blanket octopockle, languid butterfly of the deep.

Birds on an amplified fence wire. (via b3ta) I don’t know if they still make school buses the same way as they used to, but I remember discovering that you could flick your fingernail on one of the reinforcing rectangular-cross-section stripes along the side of the bus and it would make this sound:

Further birds on amplified wires.


Crystal bachet (say bah-SHAY).

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, come on, baby, shake that thing. (Hide over there from the dancing bear.) Gum. The dancing girls are chewing gum.


Places you can rent to shoot your movie in. (via NagOnTheLake)

Now everything looks like a place to shoot a movie in.

“In real life, Orville Redenbacher [say hor-FEE-leh HRAY-t’n-bahr] drowned in his jacuzzi (say yuh-COOT-see) in 1995 [say non-TEE-nuh nonna-tih-FAH-fuh].”

How they talk. (via EverlastingBlort)

“Trump is gonna give you such a health care, people are gonna be begging Trump give us a break from the health, you’re gonna be tired of all the health. And it’s gonna be /so easy/. Believe me. /So easy./ Two weeks, you watch.”

Luge on wheels.

What goes around goes down.

Product placement.

A nunch of butts. Capitol Steps.

39 cents.

Retrofuture images.

Retrofuturism: The Future We Dreamt Of. (65 min.) I just noticed that I always say it with a P sound in it: /dreampt/. Do you do that too?

Think up a spaceship name and this program will design that ship. Here, I’ve started you off with the U.S.S Henny Youngman:

Or the /Dauntless Whore of Orion/.

Vespasian culture.

Rerun: Reckless Youth. The doctor looks not exactly like but a little like Fred Lemin. (Hi, Fred!) “That was my first exposure to New York intellectuals.” Dutch is Mike Mazurki. Mary is Carrie Fisher. Almost everyone in this film is dead no, so you see what can happen.

Human murmuration.

Juanita sent me the link to this. It’s an Irish tapdancing advertisement for something, one of the new kind of ads where you have to guess what for.

An Irish step-dance that shows how Irish step-dancing started in the first place. It’s the pee-dance.

Rerun: Further frantic dancing. Ow, my back.

A beautiful teapot based on Hero’s Engine of two thousand years ago.

The Magazine of Science and Invention.

The vacuum tube, miracle of our modern age. We always think of the future as fulfilling our desires by merely refining the current popular technology. George O. Smith’s science fiction of the 1940s involved a future of ever more highly developed, higher-frequency vacuum tubes that could transmit power losslessly over great distances and copy solid objects and teleport people between planets. Whatever new thing you wanted to do was just waiting on the next kind of vacuum tube. There’s Heinlein’s /Thorsen/ tube, for example, providing computer memory. It was a cathode ray tube, but with slow-decay coating, so the electron beam would lay down an entire planar array of bits and then scan the array to read and/or flip the bits –very dense storage– for use in, for instance, /Drafting Dan/, which was the plausible idea behind all modern drafting programs. And it was the basis of the self-aware A.I. that generated the C.G.I. Lunar patriot Adam Selene, who guided the largely bloodless revolution that freed the Moon from Earth’s tyranny. So, um, anyway, the vacuum tube, still as cool as it is hot, and the other way around too:

The vacuum dugong and its little stripey associates.

The nuclear salt-water rocket.

Some of the weirdness of Mars. You might recall the spider iconography in Edgar Rice Burroughs’ /Mars/ books of the early part of last century. We’re only just able to see this stuff now, though, with our best instruments in actual low orbit around actual Mars. Hmm.

The ultrasonic obliterator.

I love this. Especially the hover-text: “Most of our universe consists of dark matter rendered completely undetectable by our spacetime codec’s dynamic range issues.

Art. (via EverlastingBlort)

The owl scale.

What. (via Fark)

A placid Japanese typewriter from the Rape of Nanking era.

Don’t be a dummy. If you see something, say something.

Barbara Lynn, her yellow pre-CBS Telecaster, and her joyous signature move. /Byeeaaaow./

Jeanne Moreau. (via NagOnTheLake)

Thanks. (via EverlastingBlort)

“God /dammit/, you guys.”

Bill Wurtz bursts back upon the scene.

Party like Betty White’s 99, which she is.

Practice lips.

Practice bagpipes chanter. Illegal in California, Vermont and Sweden, but you’re a wild rebel; what care you for their puny law. Scissors and a plastic straw is all you need. Also cellophane tape for if you get the holes in the wrong place.

The historical Scottish /Gate of Chairs/. (Compare to the historical New Zealand /Toothbrush Fence/.)

The trash creations of Dinaa Amin.

/Troll Bridge/ (a short film to the memory of Terry Pratchett). (28 min., including /The Ballad of Cohen the Barbarian/ over the end credits).

And outtakes from the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. (2 hours)

The call of the murderbird, a comely feathered lass.

     “Getting offended by something on the internet is like choosing to step in dog shit rather than walk around it.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-15) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

This show (see above) includes /The Vengeance of Ulios/* by Edmund Hamilton (Weird Tales, 1935). The story begins six hours and fifteen minutes into the show, just after an article about the Prohibition-era ravages of Jamaica Ginger and then the song /I Got The Jake Leg Too/. Tens of thousands of people were crippled by a chemical put in the drink solely to make it legal to sell. It wasn’t the methanol, which was bad enough. And Ulios is mad because his wife and her boyfriend destroyed all of Atlantis just to cover their running off together, so he becomes kind of a immoral technological vampire like them and chases after them for 6,000 years. It has really nothing at all in common with the 2007 film /The Man From Earth/ but somehow I feel they go together, but not like /The Prestige/ and /The Illusionist/ do. Nor like /Lucky/ and /The Man Who Killed Hitler And Then The Bigfoot/.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

A Night at the Garden. (Found-footage documentary about a Nazi rally of 20,000 at Madison Square Garden in New York City in 1939.

Pexachu vs. Godzilla. (via EverlasatingBlort)

“A painting of a capybara in a field at sunrise.” Check. “A spider-giraffe chimera.” Check. “A clock that is also a strawberry.” Check.

Thai insurance company ad.

Pretty volcanos. Which reminds me, one time back during the paper /Memo/ I had made a display ad for a company that sold Konocti red pumice for driveway rocks, with a volcano in the background, of course, and, in front, the big bold italic line, “Your wife, the SEXUAL VOLCANO, wants a real lava rock driveway from [Company Name]!” Judy Brown rarely commented on my esthetic choices, for obvious reasons, but she liked that particular ad. She said softly, “I would like it if somebody called me a sexual volcano.” Now I’m thinking about the comic teevee series Robin Williams made just before he strangled himself to death; it was The Crazy Ones, about an ad agency in Chicago and their creative ideas to sell things. It was ambitious, pretty good, but sad from our knowledge of the future; you can see through the professional zaniness how unhappy he was. I showed Juanita part of the first episode and she started crying.

Font that changes as you type each letter.

The Lazy Goat String Band – Sandy Boys.

Star Wars karaoke. Go on, you know you want to. (via EverlastingBlort)

Another angle on the Shitstain Rebellion.

Train with giant cat.

Train on water.

An inside view of the actually very dangerous lion costume dance. When he jumped up onto the poles I whimpered, NO!

Who could’ve seen that coming?

How the snake climbs a smooth metal tree.


Things that fit.

Joy. It actually doesn’t look like a dinosaur head. It looks like Gumby’s friend Pokey, but with teeth.

Ragtime Satisfaction.

Beauties of the past, colorized and oddly animated by A.I., which makes them all look like the cameraman told them to do 17 times 34 in their head and then doublecheck it.

Art of whaling.



It’s nice, but I don’t see why it works. What keeps it from just flying off?

This was 1992. So. (via EverlastingBlort)

So we understand each other, then.

“Gol’ blame me if I don’t think this thing is gonna work out pretty good, at that! Heh-heh. Yeah. Heh-heh-heh.” (That’s near the very end.)

The end of rural Irish phone boxes. (20 min.)

Letter B karaoke.

Clockwork bird sound maker.


Cyriak’s latest.


Capitalism is not okay.

A Free European Woman.

Luca Stricagnioli’s latest.




How squid fly.

Crazy goddamn kids.

The sprue-master.

The Moon’s Not That Great.

Red pill! Red pill!

Every building on Sunset Strip since 1966.

Starlings over Geldermasen (say kel-tuh-mah-s’n).



And The Longest Johns – The Wellerman (in 360-degrees; if your phone can do this, it is the coolest thing).


Chickens come home to roost.

     “Trump’s behavior raises a thorny constitutional issue: can a criminal be prosecuted for committing crimes?” -Frank Conniff

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-08) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

This show (see above) ends with the annual reading of Brad Watson’s story, /Aliens In The Prime Of Their Lives/. That’s almost two hours long and starts a little after six hours into the show, right after the lady Mongolian hip-hop throat singer (see below).

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

The the way it used to be. Charles Tyler was the lead singer of Dada. Here’s a short set of that band from one night at the Caspar Inn in 1982, with pictures all over it of Dada and some of the other wonderful Community School bands, and the local music scene and just Mendocino in general in the 1980s. How young everybody was. It seemed so real. And you, and you, and you were there.


Country version of Baby Got Back.

Moon Zero 2. (100 min.)

Massive Dancing Queen.

He’s like a marionette dancing.

I can’t hear the one with the washers on strings but the rest is coming through loud and clear.

That’s a good question. Why /is/ it always weasels with these guys?

Okay, my world is complete. Every facet of this piece of art is perfect. I think I sprained a wince-smile muscle.

Here’s why this guy would only buy a lousy Fram oil filter if it was the last oil filter on Earth:

The Wall of Lies.

Silent video of the Nashville Winnebago event.

Follow all your dreams at once.

“Sweet bugger-all happening here. Sweet. Bugger. All.”

If you eat the apple you will know all things, the knowledge of Morse code, drill bit specialties, photographic white balance, cigars, bass guitar chords, knots, and divers’ hand signals.

A snapshot of the present.

Lest we forget the horrors.

A little trip down memory lane. From 2016, in the Before Time.

The official state dinosaur of each state that has one. So far. California seems to have got the Pontiac Aztec of dinosaurs. Who picked that one?

The amazing bicycle girl again. Though technically they should call her a woman. Time passes. She’s twenty-six years old now.


Photographic art. (via EverlastingBlort)

Randy Rainbow’s latest:

There it is. Worse than Watergate. By a mile. (You might have to click the sound on.)

Watch out.


Luna Lee’s latest.

These kids in the Philippines figured out a way to do million-dollar-camera-array bullet-time film effects with one phone. First they show you how they did it, then they show you the result.

How we get dots and dashes.

There’s an old phrase that comes to mind: too stupid to live. But what if the dog isn’t stupid. What if this was a fun game for it, to make the man happy.

“Dave. Who turned out the lights.”

Impressive presence of mind. Unless she was a ringer, a performer set up for this. But even so.

Fire trains. (via EverlastingBlort)

Guy in VR talks about his worst day as a soldier. (20 min.)

How penguins move it right along.

The average colors of objects in our solar system. They look like the colors of things rich people would buy. Dishes, maybe, and car seats, and maybe like if they’re /really/ rich they’d have the engine block and the valve covers painted two-tone in a couple of these colors.

Grated cheese. Why not?


Wild birds fly to a man’s hand for food all in slow motion.

Amazing photos. Page through the whole gallery. (View 44 images.)

Documentary of mountain folk music. (12 min.)

Fascinating experimental journey to develop a climbing vehicle of Lego parts.

Silhouettes on the shades.

Beans, Gentlemen. With a side of Popular Problem.

An intelligent condom sales display.

The Berwick witches and King James.

Trailer for a show about the history of swears.

They must be getting their information from someone very smart.

Ear training. Scroll down and hear (and read) them all.

Nothing creepy at all about this. It is all for God’s glory.

Man trains teams of goldfish to play football with their nose.


Japanese synchronized walking.

Exactly what it says on the tin: It /is/ quite interesting.

Amazing Russia.

“Rap throat-singing female.” We can all agree with the commenter who wrote simply, “Legit.”

“We have lost the picture portion of our pictshmission. Technicians are working on the problem.”

And next year.





The versatile interrobang.

     “There is a part of Mount Everest known as the Rainbow Valley. It is named not because there are rainbows there, but because of the brightly-colored jackets on the frozen corpses that litter it.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2021-01-01) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Angels, whether they exist or not, which they don’t any more than leprechauns or pookas, also don’t look like you thought. Angels were actually nightmare monsters of collections of massed eyeballs and feathers and fire (or ice) and mashed-together animal and bird heads, at least if you’re getting your information from the Bronze Age drug beatniks who wrote the Bible.

Some more from these three hard-driving little dancin’ Dutch girls.

Mask striptease. Don’t be drinking Pepsi when you watch this, or just swallow it first. Or do what you want; I’m not trying to tell you what to do.

Not CGI. These are real robots. The quadruped one using its arm and hand to mouth the words of the song makes me think of the Pierson’s Puppeteers, a race of creatures in Larry Niven’s science-fiction future history. They had two arms, though, with a mouth-hand at the end of each one. The brain, like the brains of General Dynamics robots, was in the torso, in the center of mass, like the bridges of Star Trek starships should have been. Why expose the brains and controls and most important functions in the position of an obvious bulls-eye for enemy guns?

How we get rose petal cigarettes, which beat last week’s asbestos-tipped ones all hollow in the health department, but which remind me, maybe because of the vivid color and intimacy of a cigaret, of an uncomfortable scene in an old Steve Martin movie that stuck in my mind, where the camera goes in close on where he puts lipstick around his wife’s nostrils in order to get an erection. I know that different people like different things, but thinking about that just makes me wince, even though nobody was being hurt. The characters in that story were so helplessly bleakly unhappy all the time. I wonder if there’s something about me and my life that someone else might wince about. Hmm. Anyway, cigarets:

Massive murmuration.

Cool insects flying in slow motion.

Wok this way.

Careful who your friends are.

…Here’s a lot more of that sort of thing.

Old film of Gemini 4 EVA fixed up clean. (via b3ta)



A successful small Japanese rocket motor test.

POV: toy train. It’s neat when it goes inside the world. I like the inside part as much as the outside part. When I was little in the L.A. area my mother was a real estate agent, and she must have sold houses to and for teevee and film people because I remember the backs and other-sides of houses and house-parts on sets in movie lots. Why not look around you right now and imagine the other side of everything you see being unfinished, with the side facing you just a facade. Certainly the walls are like that, and the other side and inside of the ceiling and the floor. I’ve spent enough time under houses and in crawlspaces and tight attics doing plumbing and wiring and so on, and I never liked to /be/ inside or under things, but just looking at it is okay and, as I said, neat. It’s too bad they don’t have a cat.

Speaking of the underpinnings and insides of things: Athens 2,500 years ago.

“There are sandwiches and sandwiches.” Why can you never starve in the desert? Because of all the sand which is there. Why do they call camels the ships of the desert? Because of all the Arab seamen in them. Try the veal.

Restoration. What a beautiful color. In the very early 1980s I paid an extra $20 at Earl Scheib on Arden Way ($79.95 instead of $59.95) for that color paint on my 1963 Rambler Classic, very like this one. When that car died utterly, every part of the motor and drivetrain and brakes and all hopeless, it still looked like a gem, and the next-door neighbor bought it just to leave it in his barn and sit in it with his wife. True story.

“No single rock band in the ’90s was playing better chess against their audience.”

Tina Weymouth.

Yo-yo tricks explained employing slow motion.

“This is what happens when you find a stranger in the Alps!” That isn’t what he said, really. That’s what they dubbed in instead so they could play it on teevee. Here’s just that part. And here is an Alp, for comparison. A single Alp.




Several short Bill Plympton cartoons suggested by Donald’s actual statements.

Ode to Yoy.


Giant ethereal projected Van Gogh exhibit. (say van GOFF) (“It must be real tough on Vincent van Gogh when those in the know call him Vincent van Gogh, for unless I’m way off it’s Vincent van Gogh.”)

Art of true death scenes.

And a shoebox of old photographs. I have questions about some of them. The double-exposure with the noose, for example. It used to be that every thrift store had a box of random families’ old photographs all mixed up together because people would die with no family and the estate sale people wouldn’t want to throw them away. For many reasons, I’m sure you can think of a few, that resource has dried up, and it’s a shame, because there are all sorts of creative uses for old photos. I had one for a long time that I remember getting for 15 cents, a professional photo of a pretty, young woman of about a hundred years ago now. It said in pen, “Delia, love, Glady.” Remind me to tell you sometime the incredible story of the headstone of Elizabeth Vivian.


More gauze.

     “Put your finger on this knot, please.” “All right, but don’t do anything funny.” “I’m not doing anything funny, I’m sewing up the patient. It’s you who starts these things.” “All right, all right.” “Oh, I do love you so.” “Please. Please let go of my finger. I knew you were going to do something like this.” “Don’t pull back! I do, I love you, I love you.” “Let go of my finger.” “Don’t pull back, you’re pulling the stitches.”

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-25) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

There’s everything for Xmas and its aftermath in this show that your quarantine bubble will ever need.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly ration of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Cigarets from Santa. “What a treat! A carton (or two) of Lucky Strikes!” (via EverlastingBlort)

You want to start crying from watching young people be great at something? Here, knock yourself out.

Further: Bike Girl.

Nichols and May – More gauze. Part of what I like about this is imagining Ferren and Jill Taylor doing the sketch, just right on top of the microphone, their cheeks touching. (Hi, Ferren! Hi, Jill!)

This instrument was invented in the 1920s. It’s full of radio tubes. The keyboard was originally painted on solid wood and the whole thing was played by pulling the thumb ring left and right on a string; this one is a later model where the keyboard is really a keyboard too.

Xmas is over, huh? Don’t be sad, little guy. Every day is Xmas at Tex and Edna Boil’s Organ Emporium. A free interstate-contraband budgie with every organ, isn’t that a fine thing, Edna. It sure is, Tex.

Tom Waits – Up For Santa. Including /Frosty, Frosty, Frosty the Haunted Snowman/.

Further adventures in Yeshuidical pareidolia.

Flying over X. (via EverlastingBlort)

Il viaggio de babbo natale.

A sweet little true story by Weird Al Yankovic. It’s not ruined at all by noticing that his childhood crush looked just like his mother, and there’s nothing wrong with that, people look like other people; sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. (via Neatorama)

Use a predictive text engine to generate your own story. Wait a moment for word choices to appear, then choose one, then another, and go from there. Fun. It’s like fridge magnet poetry.

Ah. That explains it, then. I guess I’ll have to wait till there are grapes in the store again. There used to always be everything because this is America and we had armored grasping tentacles all over the world, but that system is breaking down somewhat now, fraying at the edges, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I can wait awhile to get two grapes to try this myself.

The others are nice, but I like number 26 the best.

“The most magically magical of any magic square ever made by any magician,” said Ben Franklin modestly.

“Hooliga, hooliga, wadawee! Hooliga, hooliga, wadawee!”

2020’s top cup stackers. They’re so good at it that the video can’t even keep up– their hands are a blur. This is a super-power-level of skill they’ve worked hard to develop and it’s /thrilling/, mostly because it makes them so happy. It’s competitive, but they’re just as happy for each other’s accomplishments as for their own. (28 min. of cup stacking virtuosity, with the speed times in order of better, often just /thousandths of a second/ better.)

“I resolve to put a dog on the moon.” (Technically that’s been done: Snowy, in a dog space suit, in /Tintin: Explorers on the Moon/.) I wonder what happened to my dog-in-a-space-suit t-shirt. That was my favorite shirt. I’ll bet somebody at the laundromat stole it. They stole all Juanita’s underwear once.

I think that in California you can get arrested for doing this. Or maybe it’s just if you take a pebble or shell or something home. Maybe it’s okay.

Once in a Hit and Run Theater show Harry Rothman sang the words to the Bonanza theme song, and it went, “I got a right to pick a little fight, BONANZA. Anybody fights with anybody else, first you gotta fight with meeee.” And I looked it up, and those aren’t the real words. Here are the words to The Mandalorian theme song.

Do you want to know how many people are in front of you in line before you can get the vaccine? It might be a lot and it might be a little. Find out.

How to spend your $600 stimulus check.

I remember showing this to you a long time ago. I just saw it again, and I have to repeat: I love the young couple at 3:05. They’re perfect together, completely on the same page, and they’ll be happy together for the rest of their lives. They are how people should be. And the curly-haired woman in the dark blue one-piece. “No. I don’t have the guts,” she says. She goes to the ladder to go back down, steels herself, goes back up, gathers her will, and calmly steps off, and good for her! (It’s way too high for me; I could never do that. There is no shame in going back down the ladder. Could there be anything more unnatural to the brain than stepping off a cliff –except in a dream. Bill Hicks said of blaming drugs for people jumping out a window, “If you’re ever on drugs and you think you can fly, try it from the ground first. Don’t give drugs a bad name.”)

Researchers laugh at the funny-looking sea creature, but they’re safe, for now, high above in a boat, from its ever catching their nose in whatever those things are in its front (or rear) and teaching them a lesson about respect.

This is like when three children in a cartoon stand on each other’s shoulders so the child on top’s head and arms stick out through the collar and sleeves of the single long coat they’re all inside in order to fool a ticket booth person and get into some adult place. Or even more like the race of intelligent alien snakes in Christopher Baldwin’s webcomic Spacetrawler who mass together in a lump to impersonate larger creatures.

“You’re my present this year.” An oral history of the warmly creepy Folgers incest ad.

Parker Posey in /House of Yes/.

Darth by Darthwest, Part 2.

Is the baby Spiderman or Strong Bad? It’s shaped like Strong Bad. (via EverlastingBlort)

“Holy shit. Oh, my goodness. No way. Holy shit. No. Noooooo. Holy shit.” [POW] “Oh, my fucking god. Oh.” (Eyewitnesses on the scene.)

Leftover fireworks.

Bits&Pieces’ caption is, as they say in French, exactement (say ek-ZAC-t’MOH): “What could possibly go wrong?” It turns out that a thousand bicyclists crashing into each other silhouetted on a bright icy ski slope as seen from a helicopter look like a traffic jam of ants on wax paper in a toilet. It’s like the part in the radio show /Chuck Frank, Private Op/, from the Albion Whale School to KKUP through the phone lines, in 1986, where Chuck (or Clarisse) is looking down from the high private detective office window on the teeming noir city and he (or she) says, “How can they live like that? Why, they look like ants.” And she (or he) says, “They /are/ ants.” Then he (or she) says in internal narrator voice, “I flicked one from my shoulder with a perfect scarlet nail.”

I don’t know how to really think about this. The kid has lived long enough to develop an amazing and spectacular skill, sure, but quit while you’re ahead. Meaning, quit before you do it again, while your head is still attached to the rest of you with all the important plumbing and wiring intact and nothing poking out or bending in a direction it’s not meant to go.

And this. The drone shots following him are really like flying in a dream, and they make it look like /he’s/ flying in a dream, and it’s wonderful, but it’s so dangerous. At least when this guy’s luck runs out he won’t be crushed by a tumbling 900-pound pound vehicle and might only be relatively harmlessly impaled on a handlebar, say.

Here’s some more of that sort of thing. This one has some stretches of paths cut into a cliffside that are completely terrifying; suppose he just faintly catches his handlebar on the rock face at the inside of the path, for example. The fish-eye lens makes speed seem greater, but it’s still crazy. And the knife-edge rock ridges…

Remove the danger entirely, then. It’s just as nice. But I’m old, so I would think that.

This is real. It’s a heavy-equipment operator, in between tasks, playing with a retired Lear-jet. (via BoingBoing)

Dinosaurs in love. Click the sound on. (via EverlastingBlort)

Bob Dylan on the CBC in 1964. (30 min.)

Musical theory in 16 min. I finally get the circle of fifths, and you will too.

Found things. (via Fark)


Here’s a comic strip from 2014 about the /real/ moochers.

Rerun: “So! While Sheena’s being electro cured let’s see what Peter won… That’s right! It’s fuel!”

Penny Can. I don’t know who these people are or what the show they’re in is. Maybe one of them is named Penny Can. That would make sense. Eventually she’d snap and murder them all and they’d be like, “What? Why? We thought you liked it,” and expire. (If I had a quarter for every time I told my name to someone at a counter and some kid behind him at the taco assembly station yelled /POLO!/ and they all started laughing like schoolkids laugh at the skinniest or fattest boy in the shower room, I could wash my clothes any time I wanted to. I can anyway, but I wouldn’t have to go to the store first and get quarters; I could just scoop them out of a bag by the door. No jury in the world would convict Penny Can.)

Spoiler alert. (via EverlastingBlort)

The impressive fake dome of the church of Saint Ignatius.

Everything from the world’s smallest wind instrument to the lady’s leg comb to the Wonder Glove Monkey (Cloth, 15 cents. In real mohair, 45 cents):

I had been been ignoring this link algorithmically appearing everywhere, because from the thumbnail image I thought it was the brilliant one about space alien abductees (that ends with “Tell me ’bout God. What’s God’s deal?”) that I remember watching over and over to memorize it, and/or the sequel, but this is one I’d never seen: it’s still Kate McKinnon and the same structure but it’s about paranormal phenomena. Oh! And then after that you get to see the alien abduction ones too, so this is your lucky day. Every day’s your lucky day when you smoke Lucky Strikes– aaaand we’re back up at the top again with Santa Claus. Santa Claus delivering cartons of delicious cigarets with a cigaret dangling from the corner of his mouth, which was considered an invitation to sexual intercourse in the old days, especially in a woman who had gone overboard in the lipstick department and colored outside the lines. Oops, sorry, paranormal, stay on track here:


Context collapse.

     “Just because they smile and eat chicken doesn’t mean they have mastered their emotions.” -T’Pol, to Archer, about a band of odd renegade Vulcans, one of whom within mere hours proved her correct by mind-raping her and infecting her with an MTD

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-18) KNYO Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show, ready to re-enjoy.


And thanks to Hank Sims of Lost Coast Outpost here’s a page with not only that show but also other ones going back awhile.

In the show above you’ll hear John Sakowicz’ poetry in Polish, minus the Polish, as well as Douglas Wayne Coulter’s poetry; a traditional Alex Bosworth story but updated; the first in a new series of stories about dogs Zeke Krahlin has known; Werner Herzog embellishes and annotates The Night Before Christmas to now have bats (fledermäuse); some history explaining how we get into messes like the mess we’re in and how we got out of them, or didn’t get out, the last few times around; gene and brain and space and Earth science; art decryption; lifesaving tips and tricks; Paul Modic’s lyrically self-deprecating memory of every natural sex act he ever had, including nearly his whole rolodex of client names and detailed statistics; there is a recording of Riantee’s (don’t say RAIN-tree’s, rather say ree-on-TAY’s) children’s story /Mimi the Cat/ read soothingly gently and slowly by professional Toni Birnbaum as if she’s reading to a small sleepy person sitting in her lap, and of course the usual panoply of useful, whimsical, educational information, much of it arguably essential, on all the subjects of the rainbow including the so-called Color out of Space and angles Euclid never knew, which do not in fact cause madness, that’s a myth. You know what drives you mad? I’ll tell you what drives you mad: the gas-powered leaf-blower from hell outside at nine o’clock on Saturday morning drilling into your head when you’ve been up all night on the radio, cleared up odds and ends, brushed your teeth and finally got to sleep, after a week of dealing with getting your car fixed for almost the entire car’s replacement cost because thieves hacked the catalytic converter out from under it probably right when you were blithely doing your radio show /last/ week and you didn’t find out about the damage until you’d put all your stuff in the car on Sunday night and started it to go back to Albion for work, and you probably woke everybody /else/ up in the whole apartment complex with the profound unmuffled exhaust noise of that, and now you have to be all paranoid about anybody being around in the parking lot who you don’t know by name and even some you do, because what if it was them? What if it was that nice guy who folded your clothes so he could dry his when you forgot to go get them that time? What if it was someone in the pay of some right-wing rich fellow who got pissed off at something funny he heard you say on the radio and said, low and menacing, or cheerful and sneering, “Here’s fifty and some tools, go fuck with that guy, use your imagination, show him what’s funny.” See? Madness. And it occurs in an endless chain. How do you think they got the way /they/ are? Besides drugs, sure; they’re probably all on drugs. I remember one time years ago when I was in the City for some holiday conference seminar thing –nothing to do with drugs; it wasn’t an AA or NA meeting or anything like that; it was a serious scholarly whatchacallit– and I realized that I was the only person at the big table or in the room or maybe two miles in every direction who wasn’t obviously on drugs. I think that might have something to do with everyone acting  like irresponsible juvenile delinquents, and not just lately, witness our glorious leaders throughout history. For the first two-thirds of the American experiment nearly everyone was drunk nearly all the time, and now they may not be drunk all the time but they’re high or mood-or-conscience-modified on something else. I can understand why a child would see a thing he wants that belongs to someone else who’d really miss if it was gone, and the child looks around to see if anyone’s looking and just breaks it off and takes it. You’re supposed to grow out of being like that. I’m not really sure, because I don’t have a ton of experience with drugs, liquid, solid or vaporous, because I never liked any of them that I tried, but I think everyone being on drugs all the time might have something to do with not growing out of things they should grow out of, and with stealing my catalytic converter, dang them to heck.

After I wrote that, the leaf blower finally shut off, all the leaves presumably having been moved a few steps to the left and then back again. So the giant stupid motorcycle in the apartment block across the industrial yard started, and I guess its master was adjusting the carburetor or something because it banged away, idling high and low and occasionally revving up, sounding like a string of M-80s going off (that’s on purpose; there is no mechanical reason why a motor a third the size of a quiet car motor has to be as loud as a jackhammer) for another half an hour. It was still going when I got back from walking to the store. Whatever they were adjusting about it didn’t improve it any. I’ve said this before and it bears repeating: If a policeman can give a $350 ticket to someone for playing his car stereo too loud, he should be able to give a $350 ticket to a motorcycle every time it drives by loud enough to hurt your head… Maybe that’s it: maybe people who have that kind of motorcycle are deaf and otherwise desensitized now and just don’t notice it anymore, and it’s pleasant, like Laurie Anderson’s /bees on a warm summer day/ to them. Or maybe they enjoy the sensation of terrific sound pressure levels loosening the sticky phlegm in their bronchial tubes so that at last they can really cough.

Besides all that, here’s your weekly jumbo-size pack of links to not-necessarily-radio-useful but worthwhile items that I set aside for you while gathering the show together, found mostly thanks to the fine websites listed to your right.

Speaking of context: “A headless angel playing a lute and the three wise men atop some insane-looking camels were rejected.”

The weight.

Art observing itself. My favorite is the one with the blue-clad man and blue painting on the left and the Goth-attired woman and her matching Gothic interest on the right. Or maybe the pigtails that suggest the carved golden frame. Juanita’s favorite is the one with the matching silver cloth draped over the matching butt. (via Fark)


Kind of hard to look away, isn’t it? This reminds me, science has established that if you set a picture or painting of someone looking directly into the camera, or a mannequin with a face, or even just a picture of an eye, much less a real camera, prominently where it can be seen from outside through a store window, you get way less shoplifting there, and vandals are very much less inclined to break that window. Also, I find I can clearly imagine the woman’s voice and what kind of dog she’d have if she only had one.

Record Jenga balance tower. That table must be bery heavy. The slightest vibration would make this project impossible.

Jerry Murad’s Harmonicats. These guys were on Lawrence Welk a few times that I remember, and they were performing on stage through the 1980s when they were very old. The harmonica promotes cardiopulmonary health, just like the big brass instruments. If you don’t have stroke because of the pressure you just go on and on like an ancient Galapagos turtle.

Ze Frank true facts: army ant riders.

The philosophy of the push latch mechanism.

Wax on, wax off. (via EverlastingBlort) (Click the sound on.)

Traditional Japanese fastener-free and glue-free wood joinery.

The history of the guitar. (Almost an hour. Very worth it.)

The Riddler’s riddle (and sorrow and shame).

I repeat: That explains it, then:

Blob opera. Watch the tutorial or just poke at it until you figure it out. I love this musical toy. It won’t work on my work computer but it works fine on my phone. And you can record your compositions and play them back! A wonderful toy.

Sometimes I used to take my glasses off like that and enjoy pretending to be that upset. I can really be that upset now. That’s how you get to Carnegie Hall.

Auroras (plural) Australis.


Trailer for upcoming /Shadow in the Cloud/. I know I will like a story about a competent fearless woman saving the day and the world despite the silly arrogant goofball men who just get in her way. Think Peggy Carter: Agent of Shield, or Ripley in the Alien franchise, or that warrior valkyrie woman in The Mandalorian, which I haven’t seen this year of yet; don’t tell me anything about it. And flying werewolves, like the Swiss flag, are a big plus.

Speaking of which, the trailer for Wonder Woman ’84.

Macaws doing what they’re supposed to do, where they’re supposed to be, wings intact.

Video of the sea angel under the ice. It’s a kind of slug.

And the sea bunny, also a kind of slug.

And a jerk possum. Maybe turn the sound on; though all you hear is trickling water it enhances the effect. (via EverlastingBlort)

Kinetic sculptures.

Art. (via EverlastingBlort)

So much fun for them.

I remember reading about this idea from the 1930s. It’s still a great idea. Airplanes can always take off and land into the wind. It minimizes danger of crashing into other planes. It makes everything easier, and the entire airport doesn’t have to be any bigger. You just have to move a little dirt around, but you have to do that anyway.

I adore this crazy angry dog. It can yawn and growl angrily at the same time, it’s that angry.

…It reminds me of The Angriest Dog In The World. By the way, David Lynch is /David Lynch/, the filmmaker.


Sassy Justice. The story of the best little reindeer.

Ballsy reporter.

Every movie cough. Oh! There’s the little girl in Tarsem Singh’s /The Fall/. (via EverlastingBlort)

1000-mousetrap chain reaction in slow-motion. Show starts at 6:30.

A deeply educational ad for a new game.

Drill sergeant. I wish the camerperson had been closer to her, for the sound.

Randy Rainbow’s latest.

Video charting culture by movement of notable people. (via Dr. Pickover’s Reality Carnival)

What a great idea: put asbestos dust in cigarets to protect you from the tobacco.

Just spitballing here, but…

I almost can understand this. That’ll have to be good enough. (via b3ta)

The 1950s Jennings Univox.

Study this and think about what it means. (Click on map to magnify.) And/or place your cursor over the map to read the hover-text.

And a short film about the man who invented wind-up clacking teeth, the bubble gun, hula-dancing solar-powered plastic window plants and 800 more things we all use every day. /I love it that this man exists./ He invented the gun-in-the-hat. (That was a regular cowboy hat where, if some other nine-year-old cowboy came up behind you with a cap-gun six-shooter (with paper roll caps, more like a hundred-shooter, though every fourth or fifth cap didn’t work right) and said, “Stick ’em up!”, you could turn around to face him, politely take your hat off and turn it upside down, the way you just naturally do, and a little cap-gun would pop up out of it on a spring-lever and automatically shoot the kid who was robbing you.) He didn’t invent the /original/ large Galapagos turtle with revolving clockwork eyes and extra string, but he popularized one affordable by the masses. The Vac-U-Form set. Battling Tops. Kerplunk! (the game). You’ll see all that and more here. (20 min.)

Alien’s medical visit, showing exactly what’s wrong. When I was a boy and you went to the doctor because your foot was broken (ow) or you were thinking of suicide or you couldn’t stop coughing, the doctor looked down your throat, listened to your breathing, maybe took some blood or spit and looked at at under the microscope and gave you a shot or a bottle of pills; set the bones, mixed the plaster and put the foot in a cast; asked you what the problem was that you were upset about and told you some tricks to get by until your mind settled, and did it all quickly and competently and seemed like he’d be happy to see you again later to see how things turned out and maybe cut the cast off with a pipe saw right there in his little house office. And if there was a weird thing growing on your hand he’d cut it off, sew it up, put a bandage on it and tell you not to get it wet. Now if you have a weird thing growing /anywhere/ on you they tell you to make an appointment with the weird-growing-thing doctor twelve miles in the other direction, and the appointment is entirely in the next season, and when you finally see them, if you live that long, they poke at at and say, “That’s not a big deal,” because look how long you lived with it, worried, so /now/ of course it’s not a big deal,and it’s $875 just for looking, which your insurance only pays $600 of, when your doctor could have cut it off in a minute in the first place and sewed it up in three minutes and told you don’t get it wet for awhile, and you might have a scar but it’d be a cool scar.

NewAtlas pointed me to this flickr set of curated Hubble images. Scroll down.

Wander around in real time in an infinite procedurally generated city. That’s a thing you can do now. This is just a video, though. (in BoingBoing)

This was two years ago. They’re all still on the force. They still haven’t even been /interviewed/ about it, much less disciplined in any way. It’s nice that one of them got her a coat and a blanket, that was sweet, but I hope this woman sues the whole city for $473 million dollars and actually gets it.


Time travel twins.

Time-lapse project. In the making-of video: “And then I line up my ears. Then my nose. Sometimes it looks like my ears are too far apart because I am actually facing forward too much, and that makes my head bigger in the frame. /Then/ I can do my nose.”

“A favor I’ll ask, however,” she said. “Pluck not the flowers. The price is your head!”


Les Paul and Leo Fender were friends. Who knew? Everything about this video is interesting. (35 min.)

That’s probably it. Sure, why not.

Orbits with no math.

It sounds like a Jewish wedding song.


Watch a rug be cleaned by people who aren’t being paid by the job but rather by the hour.

Watch him clean their clocks. That’s an old-fashioned way of saying /beat them up/. With his car.

Watch metronomes get their periods in sync.

Watch, and listen to, beavers eat. This is probably the most peaceful thing you’ll experience for the next quite a while.

Watch a tomato rot. Unrot. Rot. Unrot. It’s like where Jeffers’ mind-cloud has been rejected, for attitude, by the InfoSphere of the Red Shiny Robots of Vortis in the British space opera /Hyperdrive/. To perturb navigator Vine he enters and leaves his own corpse, saying telepathically, “Alive… and dead again… And alive… and dead again.”

Watch a pine cone blossom. Or simply dry out, whichever you like.

Watch a kid unicycle, hula hoop, balance a spinning plate on a stick on his nose and juggle bowling pins, all at the same time. Imagine the pattern of electrical activity in his brain while this is going on.

The miracle of Xmas.

Precious little snowflakes.

And so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye, until next week.


The wheel of schmegegge.

Here’s the recording of last night’s (2020-12-11) Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show on KNYO-LP Fort Bragg (CA).


Besides all that, here’s a fresh batch 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 changed how WordPress works, so I’ve been experimenting with not bothering to painstakingly make all the links open in separate tabs. So if you go anywhere you’ll have to press the back button to come back here. If you don’t like it this way,  please let me know so I can smile with one corner of my mouth and consider, for an instant, then reject going back to doing it the hard way that’s taken an extra twenty-five minutes of foofing around with it every week for twenty years. But for you? Sure. Of course.)

Explaining the aurora.

You can feel these titles and photographs massaging and improving your brain.

“Let’s put Christ back in Christmas.” The aspect ratio is not right. It makes the guns look like cigaret-lighter guns. You kids are too young, you don’t remember, but they used to be all over the place. It was a smooshed-looking little gun that you’d point at your own face and shoot fire at the cigaret in your mouth. You could refill it with regular lighter fluid, and when it stopped sparking you could buy a little cellophane envelope of flints from the store to fix it with. You had to use tweezers, and even then it was iffy; they gave you five tiny flints and you always lost four of them in the rug. But back then everything only cost a nickel anyway. A loaf of bread. A harmonica. A radio tube. Everything was a nickel. If you were a millionaire in those days you could buy a whole town. Also music was /music/, it wasn’t just a bunch of punks hanging around the gas station banging on pots and pans.


Holiday-time rerun: The Dundee Sisters.

Happy Pearl Harbor day after day after day anymore.

Maps of election results if electoral votes were apportioned by other forms of gerrymandering besides congressional districts. (Scroll down.)

Summon the pointer and the point.

Sachal Studios Orchestra – Take Five.

Luca Stricagnoli’s latest.

Worst responder.

“Bitch, this is your life now.” That’s the part where I really burst out laughing. I mean, it’s all funny, but I just always get a kick out it when kids swear. It improves any joke. (In related news, Scotland just announced menstrual products are provided for free to young women there. A good idea.)

I skipped you ahead to the launch. Early on in the flight problems develop. See if you can spot them. Ah, there it is, see? And things really begin to go south at about 1:49:50 (2 min. into the flight). At 1:54:44 (6 min. 32 sec. into the flight) an attempt is made to right the ship and slow to a stop, but it’s too late, on lower than adequate thrust and too great weight of unburned fuel which, upon the ship’s striking the earth at forty feet per second instead of zero feet per second and bursting open, ignites all at once. So much data is gathered that every test, even this one, is successful in that a great deal was learned, so this particular sequence of problems is much less likely now to occur when there are people riding in one of these things. That’s why they test.

What could go wrong? Besides blinding you and spraying hot green chemicals all over the kitchen, Dave, dang it. (via b3ta)

An ad for stunt school.

Film crew in quarantine.

This was a few years ago. Scroll down to the video. Everybody in and dangling from that helicopter had to risk their lives to rescue this fellow.

And this was just a few days ago. Same place. Apparently the world is just a teevee show to people, where anywhere it occurs to them to go must be safe to go, despite waves exploding entirely over the entire fricking jetty. I don’t know if there’s a sign, but should there need to be a sign? Like those amusement park rides that spin you around and shake you up and down and throw you in the air, ya know? What mother with a brain in her head would let their kids ride on that, much less ride on it if herself, pregant or not? (That’s an actual sign I saw at the county fair a few years ago, for pregnant women to maybe not ride in a giant cuisinart on a hydraulic ram.) Anyway, a walk on the jetty:

Real places. What a beautiful world.

/Americans stand ready for sacrifice to defeat new threat./

“Don Quixote gives freedom to many wretches.” I like the pronunciation of Don Quixote where you say /kee-SHOT/, which is not only acceptable but comically superior, as is /kee-SHOT-ee/ and even /kee-KHOT-ee/. I also like to pronounce trebuchet /treh-boo-SHET/, gala /ga-LAH/, Renaissance /ree-NAY-sunss/, Caribbean /keh-REE-bee-un/, and civil /sih-vil/ (not SIH-vuhl). I like shwas okay but the question is, who is to be master? Words are our tools, not the other way around. I like to draw my name on my tools with a Sharpie.

/Tooka-chooka PHBBLT!, yo./

I showed that to Juanita and she said, “Did you ever see the one where the parrot sings /Let The Bodies Hit The Floor/?”

Corruption coddlers.

Pervert hunters.

All! Especially the cap gun, because I’ve grown allergic to that smell now and hate it, it makes my throat tickle and then hurt just to smell it, where when I was a kid cap gun caps were third in great non-food smells, behind a diesel bus and fresh steaming asphalt.

A beautiful car made out of an only very slightly modified VW bug. Not good in the wet. Just drive it on nice days.

I can’t find the car, to show you, the above VW makes me think of –it was another one-off, made by an aircraft designer in the early 1960s– but here are some others that are cool though probably a lot more expensive than the VW, and they mostly all have tops, though they’re probably just as impractical in mud:

Call me when it can /tunnel in the earth and fly/ too.


Woman senator genderistically mansplains mansplaining to man senator who, in return, enjoys flicking her nose from side to side with his metaphorical index fingernail. I love it how you can see on /his/ face the puckish satisfaction of exactly the moment when /she/ realizes she’s stepped into the shit but she can’t stop.

Encounter at Farpoint.


Art of colored sand on a vibrating plate.

Bats flying, including X-ray video of a bat flying, using its fingers, because that’s what its wings are: fingers spread out into a fan.

In 1990 I actually traveled to the Museum of Jurassic Technology in Culver City to see their exhibit of the Deprong Mori, a bat that can fly through solid matter by emitting x-ray pulses, trapped in a block of lead. Here’s an article about it. I’ll talk about this and the MJT at length next week on the show.


Chuck Yeager breaking the sound barrier in the Bell X-1.

An amusing apartment back door.

Why is it always snakes?


“I was ready /three hours ago/. When will she be ready? When will she be ready?”

This guy.

What makes da Hottentot so hot.

Um-hm. Why do you suppose that is?

Which are real, which are not? The two of them that look like Vulcan script I thought /were/ Vulcan script and so not real, but they are real written Earth languages. (via BoingBoing)

And he’s like, *eye roll, sigh, oy.*

Tom Roberdeau through space and time.

Gangster torture lav. Breath. Excusable fresh-zombie patriotism. Folklore skin miracle. X-quisition.

My dreams from Wednesday, 2020-12-09:

First dream. I’m in a new different country, in a shipping/air/entry port. People are waiting everywhere for their immigration and/or business interviews. I really have to piss. I find the bathroom, but it’s just the waiting room for the bathroom. Sounds come from the inner room, of questioning and torture. I just go straight through the waiting room and go in. It’s a normal airport restroom except it’s furnished like an office torture-hospital run by 1950s-style gangsters, with a reception desk and with small cot-beds that fit in the toilet stalls. The main gangster, an office-manager-seeming version of filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, looks up from slapping someone with a silent /What can I do for ya?/ expression. I can’t use a urinal if there are people all around, and there are beds over the regular toilets. I apologize for interrupting and leave. There has to be another bathroom in this building; there are thousands of people here.

Next dream. I’m in bed in a strange room, lying on my left side. Juanita’s in a chair behind me, sleeping (I only sense this). A tall rangy woman like the mother in the famous Great Depression photo crawls into bed with me, gets her head down under the blanket and /breathes/ on my dick, which of course stirs (like the hairs on Data’s temporary human arm when the Borg Queen breathes on it). I politely discourage the woman, climb over her, out of bed, and go looking for my clothes and the shower. I don’t know where I am but that’s not a big deal because Juanita will tell me, except, is she here? or did I just imagine that? (I never looked at her, never actually saw her there.) Am I demented and this is a place for demented people? I have a flash half-memory of masturbating in someone else’s house where I was visiting and getting it all over everywhere like throwing a bucket of cake batter, but that can’t have happened, it doesn’t work like that, don’t worry about that. Just find the clothes, take a shower, go back to the bedroom and make sure Juanita’s really here. If she’s not, get out and flee until whatever they’ve drugged me with wears off and then figure out what to do next. Pretty standard.

Next dream. There’s an ongoing-for-many-generations ancient or future iron-age European war of tall thin soldiers all in white-enameled metal armor. When a soldier is killed, they re-up him so he’s still useful to fight but mentally different from the person he was before. In a long narrow stone room of rows of benches on risers with the two sets of risers facing each other, soldiers wait to be called back out to fight. One freshly-dead-and-repaired soldier, a tall, thin, young Medieval or post-apocalyptic-Medieval version of filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, is shouting proudly about how patriotic he is and how much he wants to get out there and defend the realm, and /Why are we all sitting around when there’s /fighting/ to be done?/ and so on. The other soldiers just quietly wait and ignore him; when someone’s brought back from the dead, when they’re freshly a soldier again, they often act like that. He’ll settle down after awhile.

Next dream. There are cafe tables scattered around the parking lot in front of Safeway in Fort Bragg (CA). I walk there and see filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, who used to teach at the Community School, sitting with his dream-only new wife. Tom looks about 50 or 60 years old, and his wife, the same age, seems faintly familiar to me: pretty face, big flat wide-set sharp blue eyes, black eyebrows, long, thick black hair, but skin problems of both a young /and/ an old person, like movie-makeup radiation damage. I say to her, “I can help you with your skin. I’ll give you a list of things to get and you can do that while I talk with Tom, and I’ll write instructions for how to make it.” She’s skeptical, because Tom has skin problems here too, not as bad as hers, but why wouldn’t I offer to help him? I gesture to convey that /It doesn’t work on men/. But now I have to invent ingredients you can buy in a grocery store to make a magical radiation-damage/acne treatment. Just relax and let the lie flow. I always have paper in my pocket. Tom gives me a pen.

Next dream. A sinister religious inquisitor character and his entourage show up at a gray old cathedral/monastery/nunnery place in green hills. In this world they’re hunting down people with odd powers to persecute them. This inquisitor is specifically looking for Thomas Roberdeau, who in this place and time is a mysteriously superpowered four-year-old boy. The nuns are protecting him; they have him hidden.

One of the nuns steps a little into the air in plain sight, like skipping but not quite coming down, but the inquisitor doesn’t see that. The nun climbs/flies up a giant tree-branch-like filigreed rusty black metal clock hand to hide behind the tip of it up near a high window. That’s part of her power– not only being able to make herself light like the people fighting in the bamboo tops in /Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon/, but also to go unnoticed by your enemies in short intense bursts while doing something astounding.

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.