WFMU's Beware of the Blog

Blubber Chicken and Middle-Class Pie

Hello, everybody—nice seeing you again.

I was reading a social history of housework, because that's the kind of thing I do for fun, and in the chapter on cooking the author said that now that a whole generation has grown up eating Hamburger Helper, that's what Americans think home cooking is. They associate a good, home-cooked meal with Mom dumping the contents of a box into a pan and mushing it up with some ground beef. This made me feel very un-American, because I'd never eaten Hamburger Helper in my life. Then one night I happened to have a pound of ground beef in the Kelvinator, and it was a night Sluggo wasn't going to be home for dinner, so I decided to experiment. I walked to the store and, mirabile dictu, Hamburger Helper was on sale that week. There were a lot of flavors; I hadn't expected that. I didn't know which was the correct, all-American flavor to get, but there were empty spaces on the shelf so I figured probably the "regular" flavor was already sold out. I wanted to do my experiment, but I wasn't so committed to it that I was willing to get a raincheck and another pound of ground beef the following week, so I finally chose "Oriental" because its name seemed more politically incorrect, and therefore more all-American, than "Stroganoff."

Well, it was dreadful. The predominant flavor was salt, apparently as an attempt to disguise the bizarre chemical flavors of the other ingredients. I like salt—I sometimes snack on sea salt straight from the box—but Hamburger Helper was too salty for me. I am sorry for the Americans who eat this stuff, but on the other hand I'm not a foodie, either. Foodie food is peculiar in its own way. For instance, foodies are responsible for blubber chicken. For hundreds of years, American cookbooks have advised folks to roast a chicken by letting it sit in a 350-degree oven for an hour or two, depending on the weight of the bird. It was delicious, and it was fool-proof—but unfortunately it wasn’t foodie-proof. Pick up any new-fangled foodie cookbook, and you’ll discover that you should be putting your chicken in a 500-degree oven for a while, and then lowering the temperature for another while, and then you will wind up with a nasty, undercooked, blubbery bird which apparently you are supposed to pretend to enjoy because if you don’t you are an unsophisticated rube who only wants your food to taste good.

Poor Christmas

I have been poor most of my life. Not poor as in, “we have to cut back on the cleaning lady’s days,” but poor like being passed around from one relative to another to live, and wearing other kids’ used clothes, and going an entire north-Midwest winter with no winter coat because nobody noticed I didn’t have one. I don’t remember ever being hungry then, but I do remember being cold; I cried from the cold sometimes.

I worked hard in school so I could get a scholarship to college, because I knew that was the only way I’d ever get out. I got a full scholarship to a school in the Pacific Northwest. The winters were warmer there, so my lack of a winter coat didn’t matter so much. I arrived at college with my entire wardrobe: two sweaters, two pairs of jeans, underwear, socks, a pair of clogs, and a jacket. I don’t remember being cold there, but sometimes I was hungry. I stood in the cafeteria where the other kids emptied their trays and took the food they didn’t want. I remember when the price of a box of saltine crackers went up a nickel at the local store, because that meant I couldn’t afford them any more. Then my little sister came to live with me. One of the happiest days of my life was the day we qualified for foodstamps.

One year I started saving at the start of the school year, and by Christmas I had $6.00. I had three people I had to get gifts for, so I used the money to buy cheap little address books at a 99-cent store and some fabric scraps, and I covered the books with the fabric and decorated them and wrapped them in paper I drew myself. It wasn’t so bad, really. I think I have a naturally sunny nature that probably would have come out more if my life hadn’t been so hard when I was young, and that year I thought, “Well, at least I’ll never have a Christmas as poor as this one. Every Christmas from now on will be better than this.” But I was wrong. This year is worse.

A Fatal Exception

Relax.  Relax.  Have a chicory.

MP3 by Jim

Who Really Cares...

...about correct grammar, spelling and punctuation?  As someone who has pursued a career as a proofreader and copy editor for almost 20 years, I consider myself part of that withering breed of cranks who do care, but are at the same time aware we're fighting a losing battle.

The publishing and news media industries, for the most part, do not pay their editors a living wage (it's more of a live-at-home wage), and why should they, with all the chuckleheads out there nursing Jimmy Olsen dreams?  As a result, newspapers, magazines, Web pages and even books in print are riddled with typos, misused punctuation and poorly written sentences.  Just look at this doozy (pictured) I found on CNN.com a while back—sentences like this are commonplace on CNN, MSN and other Web media outlets.

If you want to make a living wage as an editor, you'll most likely need to go to work for THE MAN, in one of several "evil" corporate industries such as law, finance, pharmaceuticals or healthcare.  These industries don't generally care about correctness, either.  They care only inasmuch as it affects their bottom line, i.e., if something in print isn't as it should be, they could be fined, be sued, or even (gasp!) lose an important client.  (Don't even get me started on Continuing Medical Education, a wholly corporate-funded scam, and the subject of another blog post for another time.)

So who really cares?  Lynne Truss does.  Truss expanded her well-received BBC Radio 4 series, Cutting a Dash, into the best selling book Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation.  Anyone with even the slightest reverence for correct punctuation usage and grammar will find this a laugh-out-loud read.  To demonstrate the strength of her convictions, upon the opening of the film Two Weeks Notice, Ms. Truss went to Leicester Square with a six-inch apostrophe mounted on a stick, holding it strategically aloft so that, for a time at least, "Weeks" carried its proper possessive.

Most passersby told Truss to "get a life."  The sting of this comment, in this context, has been felt at one time or another by all intrusive, stickler-types like myself.  My own wife, bless her, has weathered years of my "pronunciation tips," and never once told me to "get a life."  But just try telling someone to "get a life" as they blab on about last night's NFL spectacle, the "tribal council" on Survivor, or Lindsay Lohan's drunken escapades.  These things, apparently, are more legitimate stuff of which to make up a life than our glorious and complex written language.

Things to Think and Boo

Hello, Everybody—Nice seeing you again.
I always advise my Listeners to check the business news sections of web sites or the newspapers, because how else are you going to find out what’s really going on? For instance, how else would we know that the haunted house business is not what it used to be?

First off, who even knew it was a business? Well, it is. There are a couple of trade magazines called—surprise!—“Haunted House Magazine” and “HauntWorld” (“the ONLY haunted house magazine for professionals!”) There is a haunted house industry association, and haunted house trade shows where haunted house industry professionals can meet with haunted house vendors. But unfortunately it’s not the business it used to be. All those old houses are being seized under the new eminent domain rulings, and there’s all those new safety regulations, and the price of liability insurance keeps going up, and it’s getting hard for a simple animatronic zombie entrepreneur to scare up a few bucks. So don’t quit your dayjob.

I was trying to think of something really scary to leave leave you with this Halloween, and here it is:

When asked if she approved of the Park Slope Pavilion movie theater’s policy of searching the bags of all patrons. Ms. Bridget O’Connor said, “Oh, definitely, I hope they continue. It puts your mind at ease. It might take a couple extra seconds, but what doesn’t?”

Well, EXACTLY. What doesn’t?

Thanks for taking a couple extra seconds to read my blog entry, and happy Halloween.

This Week in Sex: Sex Ed

Sex isn't all fun and games, you know. Actually, it's mostly no fun and games. Which is why we bring you the Back to School edition of This Week in Sex. Take your hands out of your pockets and get learning, Junior.

Mommy, Daddy, where did the controversy about sexual education come from? Apparently, from this boring 1947 film. You can watch the movie, or just look at the thumbnails featuring a deeply suspicious dad. I prefer the Department of Agriculture sex ed film that takes the sex Ed Wood approach: if you like stock footage, a swelling soundtrack, and rabbit C-sections, this is the film for you.

Movie Club. If you just want to watch something dirty, which I know you do, there are about a kajillion other old  films on the Internet Archive, plus a handy subject index. They have non-sex stuff, too. Actually, it's mostly non-sex stuff. I just don't pay attention to it.

Biology 101. What's inside your boobs? I'm not really sure, but it's disturbingly glowy.

Career Counseling. You say you want to be in radio, but the results of your assessment test say you would make a great Hooters Girl. Congratulations!  Please take your Suntan-colored pantyhose and a copy of your Hooters Handbook, and remember that being sexually harassed is part of the job. (The pantyhose and the sexual harassment parts are just like radio, so don't be too disappointed.)

Linguistics. This guy spent a whole lotta time researching and thinking and writing about about the word cunt. (Whereas I just spent a whole lotta time watching the cunt circus.)

Science Fair. "How many angels fit on the head of a pin?" is a question for theologians, but "How many condoms fit on the head of a penis?" is one we can really wrap our hands around. And by "we" I mean the Science Project geeks, who I hope keep up the good work. A+.

Cosmology. If you think God is being a big dick with this weather, you're right. Rita looks like a big phallus. But if you think Katrina looks like a big fetus, and that means the storm is God's way of punishing us, you're wrong. Plus you're being a big dick.

Community Service. It's not porn, it's charity: make a donation to Katrina relief and see pictures of boobs in the virtual Mardi Gras that is Boobs4BourbonSt. You can donate boobs or money, or both. [via]

P.S. I double-dare you not to look at pets in uniform. (P.P.S. Now I know what I'm getting DJ Bronwyn for Christmas! Don't tell.) [via]

Thanks for the random acts of smut, Station Manager Ken.

The Card Man

Hello, Everybody--Nice seeing you again.

One day, years ago, I was walking down Madison Avenue on lunch break from my dayjob at a law firm. I was on the west side of the street between 39th and 40th, when a chubby little man with a bad haircut, wearing an ill-fitting, brown blazer, handed me a business card as he walked past. The card had the name of some employment agency on it, and I tossed it into the next trashcan I came to.

A few months later, he did it again. I was on lunch break, on Madison, near the spot where I saw him before, and he handed me the same card. “What is this?” I asked.

He looked a little startled when I spoke to him. “It’s about a job,” he said.

“What kind of job?”

The question seemed to make him uncomfortable. “You have to call,” he said, sidling away.

When I got back to my office, I did call. A woman answered. “Hi,” I said. “A gentleman gave me your card and suggested I call about a job.”

“You’ll have to come in to the office, “ said the woman.

“What kind of jobs do you have?” I asked. “Are you a temp agency?”

“I can’t talk about it on the phone,” she said. “You have to come in and see us.” Of course, I never did.

How To Break Up With Your Bad, Scary Boss

I received a message last week from a former co-worker, a truly sweet, humane and talented woman, requesting my advice.  She was poised to give notice of her resignation to her boss, a complex character whom I know all too well, as I gave him my own resignation notice last fall after almost four grueling years of employment.  Now lots of people hate their jobs, but this place, and this man, were no joke.  I performed several burning parchment rituals over the years in an unsuccessful attempt to quash or at least diminish this fucker's psychological power over all of us.  But his will was more iron than mine at the time, and may still be.

I got my ass out of there, and the task before me now was to help my dear friend extricate herself with a minimum of misery and anxiety surrounding the proceedings.  I felt that my response to her was worthy of a blog post, and might perhaps be of help to someone else in the Web universe.

(Note that all names (except mine) have been completely changed to protect all parties from possible legal repercussions.)

Dear Friend,

First of all, congratulations.  I personally hate working, so actually looking for work runs counter to my nature, though sometimes it must be done.

"Selling yourself," seeming like a "people person" and a "self-starter," are all activities that threaten to make sane, sensitive, artistic folks like us spontaneously combust in anguish.  So good show, you got out there and you found something.

The Dog With No Nose

Hello, Everybody—nice seeing you again.

I have a dayjob at a dog magazine, and when I first started there people kept telling me about the dog with no nose. They said he lived somewhere in the neighborhood of our office, and that occasionally they would see him outside being walked. As an extremely gullible person, I am always a little afraid of being pranked, and for a long while I thought this was probably just some kind of initiation trick, like going to camp as a kid and being sent on a snipe hunt or when the other production staff at the Village Voice used to threaten me with tales of Gauzehead, the dreaded specter of Deadline Doom. I did actually see Gauzehead once, and he was truly terrifying. He also had an uncanny resemblance to Andrea, the drummer for the Fuzztones,
but I’m sure that was just a coincidence.

Anyway, one day I went out for lunch very late, later than usual. I was talking on my cell phone to DJ Amanda, when I saw him—The Dog with No Nose. It is almost impossible to describe what he looks like, because it’s just so wrong. He’s a nice old Golden-Retriever-looking fella who’s missing the top front half of his face. His tongue laps out periodically as if he’s trying to smell things with it like a snake. He shuffles along the street leaving a wake of double-takes and horrified looks from the people he passes. “Omigod!” I hissed into the phone. “It’s The Dog With No Nose!” “Oh, I’ve seen him,” Amanda replied. It turned out she knew all about him, having run into him once when she took her Puli , Dodger, to the Animal Medical Center in Manhattan.

This would seem to confirm some of our office speculation that The Dog With No Nose lost his nose due to some awful accident or maybe an illness, dog nose cancer or something. Dogs are not vain, so the ghastly disfigurement probably doesn’t worry him, but how does he get along without the sense of smell that is so important to dogs? Was his nose removed to save his life, and was that a kindness or not, given the circumstances?

I have been thinking a lot about The Dog With No Nose lately, since my skin cancer’s come back all across the tip of my nose and a little spot on my upper lip. I’m just finishing my fourth week of chemo, and my nose is coming off in hunks. I realize now I’ve always been rather fond of my nose. I stare at it in the mirror and suddenly find it perfectly adorable. I know I’m going to miss it if they have to take it off. Having been through cancer twice before myself, and having been the friend or relative of a number of other people who have had other types of cancers, I know it’s difficult sometimes for well-meaning friends to know what to say or do. Of course, everyone is different in their reaction to serious illness, but here are a few things I’d like my friends to keep in mind, and maybe other folks would find these helpful as well:

1. Please don’t be afraid to ask how I’m doing. I want to know you care about that. But please don’t call me at work and ask for the full report while I’m sitting in a cubicle. E-mail is probably the best way to contact me, because even when I’m home I may be tired or may not feel like talking right that moment about being sick. Send me an e-mail and tell me you’re thinking of me. Tell me I can call you anytime if I feel like talking. Think of something fun we can do together that doesn’t involve my sitting in direct sunshine. Please don’t disappear from my life just because you’re afraid you’ll say the wrong thing. Telling me you care about me is always appropriate.

2. Please be optimistic, but don’t tell me your elderly uncle had skin cancer and the doctor just scraped it off and he was fine. I really hate it when people act like skin cancer is baby beginner training wheels cancer and not the “real thing.” I have already endured being told I was going to lose an eye from this. I have been through two major operations—one took four hours, and the other five hours, and I had to be conscious during both of them while pieces of my face were being removed. The left half of my face is so scarred up it looks like a hippie chick’s patchwork handbag. On the other hand, I don’t want to hear about how many people die from skin cancer every year, either. So this is tricky, I know. Maybe you can just concentrate on how lucky I am to live in New York, where there are so many great doctors to help me. There have been some terrific advances in treatment since I had my surgeries a few years ago--that’s a good thing to keep in mind, too.

3. Make me laugh. Send me a funny card, or a copy of the funniest book you’ve ever read. E-mail me a joke. Send me a DVD of a funny movie. If you’re SURE you know my sense of humor, you can even make jokes about my stupid illness. DJ Kelly told me that if I had to have some of my nose removed, she would donate tissue from her ass to replace it. This made me howl, because she knows her ass is a never-ending source of hilarity to me.

4. IF you can do it honestly, compliment me on some aspect of my appearance. Not only does my face look weird right now, but being sick makes me feel ugly. On the other hand, I’ve recently lost 22 pounds and I look pretty good. I just got a great haircut. Saying something nice would really boost my mood right now, if it’s sincere. We had a small electrical fire in our office last week, and the cutest fireman came to check it out. I said something flirtatious to him, and HE FLIRTED BACK. I can’t tell you how great that made me feel.

5. Pray for me. Scientists and experts have found that other people’s prayers have a positive effect on the recovery of sick people, even if the sick people don’t know they’re being prayed for. So please put in a good word for me with your deity of choice, or just picture me happy and healthy, flirting with some fireman, my adorable little nose intact. I’d really appreciate it.

Thanks for reading my blog entry, and may God bless.
-Bronwyn C.

Lunch Minutes for 7.13.05

Most organizations with any semblance of order keep minutes for all their meetings, both formal and informal. At WFMU, most of the meetings amongst the small office staff fall into the informal category, with proper station procedure, technical issues, programming matters, and related cultural phenomena frequently discussed at the lunch table while gobbling down inexpensive takeout food. What follows are the lunchtime minutes for today, July 13th, 2005.

Those present for this meeting were: Ken Freedman, Scott Williams, Megan Murphy, Liz Berg, myself, + volunteers Wendy, Greta, and Ed Word. Brian Turner, Moshik, and Bill Zurat were also present, but were forced to eat in the other room because of poor behavior at yesterday's meeting.

The menu: Most of us ordered from a local Asian place called Nutty Handjob's. A few non-believers either brought food from home or ordered slop from some other place that I can't necessarily endorse. In most cases, lunch was complemented by icy cold and delicious (i.e. "free") water.

The topic of today's lunch discussion was hippies. (Yesterday, we talked about Oingo Boingo, so there is a logical progression evident at work here.) Here are some of the sub-categories of the hippie subject that were tackled this afternoon:

* The DJs on staff who either shy away from the hippie music, as opposed to those who embrace it warmly and cradle it to their bosom appreciatively.

WFMU's Amazing Floating LP

As much as we here at WFMU tend to reject characterizing ourselves as "nutty," "wacky," "boffo," "screwy," "batty," "balmy," "loony," "goofy," "jokey," "nutso," "waggish," "bonkers," "cuckoo," "harebrained," "zany," "daffy," "cockamamie" or otherwise anything even closely resembling a state of being "totally bananas," this can still be a pretty weird place to hang around. Case in point: WFMU's mysterious and now-legendary floating record album.

Yes, WFMU's alphabetically-arranged record library is not only home to some of the tools of our trade -- that trade being freeform radio -- it is also home to a genuinely nomadic record. A record that can not be filed alphabetically. A record that knows nothing about structure or boundaries and refuses to hemmed in by that whole limitations trip the other records and CDs are always trying to lay on it. Considered in this light, it is very much a microcosm of our mission here at WFMU. In another way, it's a corny Russian jazz record with a name I can't type out on this keyboard. What makes it truly unique, however, is that every time one of our DJs comes across it in the stacks, it is their duty to then refile it someplace else. Anyplace else.

As you can see by the detail of the jacket, this tradition dates back to 1990. No one around here will fess up to starting it, however... Even Irwin claimed not to know anything about it, and he constantly ribs me for being such a kid in comparison to his elder statesmanship at FMU. (He recently reasoned that he'd been into the band Grauzone (click to stream Real Audio) since "before [I] was born", which leads me to believe that Irwin thinks I am only 11 years old.)

But back to the matter at hand: Hokey Russian Jazz records. Here's an MP3 (right-click to download)  of the second song on side one, the title of which reads something that (in Russian) looks like "Mpncmotpn Aahr MactylIok", which according to one of those online translation programs means "Electric Pork Tuxedo". (Other songs on the record not available for download include "Aeebea" ("Asphalt"), "By Abte Aoepbl" ("Lick my Boots"), and "Xaomanhte B AaaoIihn" ("Marmalade and Heroin".)

Word on the street is that this hot combo's LP was released in a limited, hand-numbered run of only 800 copies (ours is #49). In order to secure yours, I'd suggest you soon start jockeying for position at our next Record Fair, to be held November 4th-6th in Manhattan. In the meantime, I'm heading downstairs to re-file the LP. I'm feeling drawn to somewhere between the Creedence records and the last RJD2 12"...

WFMU Yard Sale Wrap Up

WFMU's third un-annual Yard Sale was nothing short of a hoot and a vinyl huntin' dollah hollah! We cleared our pathetically overstuffed basement of thousands of dollar records, so as to make way for new donations, and we also unloaded our equipment closet of things like antique cart machines, mini-disc recorders, and a slightly water-damaged but otherwise workable Technics 1200 turntable, all for something south of five bucks apiece. If you didn't make it, you can either console yourself with the knowledge that our utterly legendary (and 200 times as big) Record & CD Fair will be back in effect on November 4th, 5th, and 6th, or you can listen (Real Audio) to the live edition of Seven Second Delay that was taped during the yard sale, during which Andy Breckman offered one minute of face time for the paltry sum of one dollar. Per minute. The wily OCDJ, who moonlights under the employ of Mr. Breckman, used his dollar wisely as you can see from this picture, in which he enjoys an uninterrupted 60 second Andy hug while Ken Freedman and Gaylord Fields look on. This was a particularly sly move on OCDJ's part -- there's no way Breckman can ever fire him now. You can check out more pix from the WFMU yard sale in this post, including one of Diane Kamikaze's amazing Egyptian Pharaoh skeleton guitar case, and another one of some dude with a mohawk buying it off her. (Thanks to Listener Max for the pic.)