WFMU's Beware of the Blog

Sing We Now Of Christmas

I'm standing at our bay window, curtain pulled aside, watching for my father’s truck. We can’t eat until he's at the table. Dinner is chicken with some vegetable. It smells good. I'm hungry. I usually am. My family hates me. There are five of us and not enough of anything to go around. My father is our sole support. My mother doesn't work. Feeding seven people is expensive. And I take more than my share. That's why they hate me. I try to be a good person, stay out of the way. I’m the youngest and shit rolls down hill and — why I should I care?

“Why should I care?
If I have to
cut my hair
I got to
move with the fashion
or be outcast.

"I know I should fight.
But my old man
is really all right
And I'm still living at home
even thought it won't last.”

WDOA XMAS

Just home from the office Xmas party. What a bunch of shit. I probably won’t know any of these people in a year. I’m sitting around, eating, drinking, laughing - like we’re best chums. Fuck. I don’t like 2/3 of these people. Most of them are complete idiots, cushioned by money or total lack of self-awareness.

Back to the Books

Hello, Everybody—nice seeing you again.

I was very busy in September, and I only finished reading two books. I didn’t realize until I began to write this entry what it was that the two books had in common. Here, look:

The first book, “True Story: Murder, Memoir, Mea Culpa” is by Michael Finkel, a former writer for the New York Times who was fired after being accused of inventing part of a story he wrote for the Sunday magazine section. This struck me as amusing and ironic, since I’ve always referred to the NY Times as “The Big Grey Pack of Lies,” although now that I’ve read Professor Frankfurt’s little book, I understand that it is actually “The Big Grey Pack of Bullshit.” (You can’t say that on the radio, though.)

In his book, Finkel describes writing the story that got him fired. He was assigned to write about the use of child slaves in cocoa production in Africa, but when he got to Africa he discovered that the story was pretty much a fabrication. Then, when he got home, his editors at the Times really, really, really wanted him to write the story from the point of view of one particular child cocoa worker—so Finkel invented a composite character and wrote the story, and then he got caught. He was home feeling sorry for himself when he got a call from a reporter in Portland who told him that a guy accused of murdering his family in Oregon had been apprehended in Mexico, where he was hiding out under the name “Michael Finkel from the New York Times.” This was so bizarre that Finkel got in touch with the guy and began a correspondence with him. The guy’s real name was Christian Longo, and although everyone is supposed to be entitled to the presumption of innocence, there is not one sentence in Finkel’s entire book that would lead you to believe that Longo was anything but guilty of the murder of his wife and three children. And yet, Finkel himself seems unsure of it all the way. He’s so flattered that some baby-killer would appropriate his identity that it’s not until he actually attends the trial, sees Longo in the courtroom, and picks up on the reaction of everybody else that he realizes that—quelle horreur!—Longo is probably a sociopathic mass murderer. Finkel himself comes across not as a bad guy, but just totally, terminally clueless.

Things to Think and Do

Things to Think and Do

Hello, Everybody—Nice seeing you again.

I accidentally got a job writing fiction once. It was a pretty good job, and it paid pretty well, but the problem was that I’d never written fiction before and I wasn’t sure how to do it. Up until then, all I’d written were true stories of my real life, which apparently someone had mistaken for being fictional, but weren’t. (Of course, now that I know more about serious literary writing, I understand that it’s all pretty much just thinly disguised autobiography anyway, but at the time I didn’t know that.) So anyway, I panicked, and then I read that George Saunders—one of my favorite writers ever—was teaching up at Syracuse, so I wrote to him and asked him if he would teach me writing in a sort of freelance tutoring, don’t-tell-the-University way. He said no, of course, but he was very nice about it. As far as my writing job went, it turned out not to matter too much anyway. And George Saunders is still one of my favorite authors, so I was very happy when Dr. Colby asked if I wanted to go see an adaptation of Pastoralia at P.S. 122 on Saturday.

We did go, and we had a jolly time. The story, about a guy who works as a caveman reenactor at a failing theme park, makes a fine play. I haven’t had the chance to go back and reread it, but it seemed to me that director Yehuda Duenyas did a nice job of adapting it for the stage. All the technical stuff was good, and Michael Casselli’s sets and Kirstin Tobiasson’s costumes were excellent. I don’t go to plays very often because so much of the acting just annoys the crap out of me, but these actors didn’t, and both Aimee McCormick, who plays Janet, and Ryan Bronz, who plays Ed, were outstanding. Bronz conveyed so much with just his facial expressions, which can’t be easy when you’re wearing a caveman unibrow headband. He’s no Kim Myung Min, but he’s very, very good—although it might not be so successful in a bigger theater where you couldn’t see him right up close. Pastoralia is in the wee little theater space on the 9th St. side of P.S. 122 through next weekend, and I recommend that you see it if you get the chance.

Here are some other things I’m looking forward to doing to fill time until I get my Hepatitis shots and ship out for Louisiana:

This Week in Sex: Dumbass 'R' Us

Butt wait, there's more. A list of things people put up their butts. The medical term for this kind of person: dumbass.

(May I ask where you get a frozen pig's tail? I'm just curious. But not stick-it-up-my-butt curious.)

(I am also curious about "kangaroo tumor." I know I'm not the only one who thinks that's hot. There's at least that one other person.)  [via]

Don't you wish the internet came with instructions? Well, it does. Grab a pen, listen up, and take notes for future reference (mp3).

Take it off all over again. Strippers are back in New Orleans at the recently reopened Déjà Vu club on Bourbon Street. There are no tourists around, but there are plenty of police, firefighters and military personnel, which makes stripping and violating curfew "a public service."

Putting sex on the map. The Museum of Sex is Mapping Sex in America, and you can stick your little pushpin in it. Head to the MoSex site, click on the state where you did or thought or saw the deed, write it down, and regret using your real name.

They found that giant squid nobody believed attacked Captain Nemo in "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea," which you will remember was both a memoir of the famous expedition and a documentary movie. The squid doesn't look that giant. But what's the deal with that giant finger? Don't point that thing at me.

Most turkeys are bisexual. And other impressive true scientific happy hour facts I did not make up. (Also useful as tension-breakers at the family Thanksgiving dinner.)

Why buy when you can rent sex toys?

Don't you wish masturbation came with instructions? Well, it doesn't, but it comes with a thesaurus. And a hands-free option.

Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs stab you in the abdomen. Or seal your vaginal opening with a mating plug. I hate when that happens.

Collect them all. Snuggly syphilis makes bedtime fun! You're gonna love gonorrhea!
(venereal diseases and more thanks to Station Manager Ken)
 

Bad Astronaut

The time:        The early 1960’s.

The Place:    In a space capsule, Aries 1, orbiting the earth, and on the ground at Mission Control.
The Cast:        Terry Archer, Astronaut. Gene Morris, Mission Chief. Robert Mason, Mission Crew member

The stage is split roughly in two. Stage right is the capsule set. It is dark, except for some interior illumination. Terry Archer sits in the capsule, fidgeting slightly. Stage left is the Mission Control set. A clock on the wall reads 0400 hours, military time (4:00 AM). Robert Mason is seated at the center monitor. His sportcoat is slung over the chair back. He also wears a communications headset - and an extremely bored expression.

Mason:    (Yawning, irritated) Where the hell is Gene?

Archer:    Houston? Is that you? Over?

Mason:    Roger, Aries - copy. Sorry, just talking to myself - and yawning. I need some shuteye.

Archer:    Roger, Houston - tell me what that is again, huh? Over.

Mason:    (Chuckles, yawns) Copy, Aries. You’ve been up how long now? Over.

Archer:    Coming up on 26 hours. Whatever you gave me, it worked. Over.

(Gene Morris enters, stage left, carrying a cup of coffee. He sets it down near Mason.)

The Last Time I Saw My Brother-in-Law

I got in the van and was handed a Budweiser tallboy in a can, courtesy of John, swiveling around in the passenger chair. The barrage began. We talked about cars - one of the few safe reference points - until Cliff started in on my brother, telling me how Rich and his girlfriend recently shafted him out of $300. While Cliff spoke John would jump in and ask me questions. There was an ebb and flow to the way they’d each address me, then one another, then me again - and so on. It was obvious these guys spent alot of time around each other.

Alien Nation

MP3s: Ronald Reagan - speech to UN mentioning aliens (excerpt) | Roswell Radio Broadcast from 1947

This site is dedicated to kids who have been abducted by aliens. Read up on the abduction process, why the green men want us, how a thought screen helmet can protect you, and check out plenty o' drawings by children, post-abduction. Oh, and their factoid list states that aliens do not use radio nor can they understand our languages when they are transmitted via radio, so you'll want to stay on our good side until judgment day. (via del.icio.us)

This rendezvous with our interplanetary pals reminded me of a friend who attended college at UC Santa Cruz: he signed up for a course called "Anthropology: Culture and Religion" and became mighty suspicious when the reading list included The Field Guide to Extraterrestrials. Although he failed to read the course's subtitle ("Alien-Nation and Outer Space") before enrolling, I believe the semester-long investigation of ufology (official university-sanctioned term) prepared him well for our day of reckoning.

The Books of August

Hello, Everybody—nice seeing you again.

I thought August was a pretty good month for me. I’ve been feeling better and was able to get out and have a little summer fun--I went to a couple of parties, an art opening, and a wedding, and I saw Jean Nathan speak in Bryant Park about her brilliant book, “The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll.” But then I looked at the books I’ve read over the past month, and I started to wonder about what’s really been on my mind: Two of ‘em are about my childhood homeland, two of ‘em have the word “gothic” in the title, one of ‘em is about surviving in extreme circumstances, and one of ‘em made me think of a very dear, dead friend.

American Signs: Form and Meaning on Route 66, by Lisa Mahar (2002, The Monicelli Press). Is there anything better than reading a book by someone whose mind works just like yours? Lisa Mahar traveled Route 66 from Chicago to L.A. and analyzed the motel signs along the way--their history, evolution, construction, function, and the messages they convey--with charts, illustrations, and many photos. The fact that she even thought to do this thrills me, but the execution--the book itself--is even better. Here is the caption to one of my favorite illustrations: “Motels signs that included a saguaro [cactus] illustration were relatively common along Route 66, but none were located within the natural range of the species. This illustration, which locates the motels in relation to the plant’s native habitat, is based on an illustration in Douglas Towne’s ‘The Mysteries of the Wandering Cactus Unearthed.’” Okay, maybe she could have used a better copy editor, but the book is a real treasure. It’s 272 pages long, and I thought of Mr. Boyd as I read every page.

From the Trenches - Triac In the WFMU Live Room

They came from Baltimore to grace the WFMU airwaves; TRIAC, featuring one member of Hatebeak, were musical guests last night on Andrew Listfield's fill-in program for Pat Duncan. Listen here (about 22 minutes in) for the MP3 version of their set; here to check it out in RealAudio. Triac treated the listening audience to an onslaught of 10 songs of their trademark sludgy, furious grind. The new cd, Dead House Dreaming, that features cover artwork from artist extraordinaire Stephen Kasner, is just recently out on the Reptilian label. The Cosmic Cowboy got a good aerial shot of them while clutching onto a ceiling fan for dear life, fearful of dropping into the whirling madness of the room below. Before they left, we chatted off-mic about things near & dear; Route 17 and the Paramus Mall, a website where you can listen to the entire HAWK album and other classic 80s metal finds, cutlery and good posture. Check out the archive, buy their album, see them live, Triac commands you!

Hurricane

I heard the warnings but wouldn’t leave the house. The windows were boarded up, there was plenty of food and water—and I thought I’d ride it out. Having never been through a hurricane before, I thought it might be a break in routine to make me feel like somebody (my ex says I can’t cope with being a nobody, that it’s making me “…miserable and frustrated”).

Image from Plymouth State

Wild Horses

I changed lanes and got onto the exit ramp marked “ASSATEAGUE – 3 MILES” catching sight of myself in the rear-view mirror: three-day heard, drooping eyelids, sunken cheeks, pasty complexion, matted hair, sweaty brow, bloodshot eyes. Over the course of two weeks I’d gone from mild respectability to this: a gin-soaked death’s head melded to the road via steering wheel and gas pedal. From man to monster on a diet of cigarettes, greasy meals and flops at roach-ridden motel rooms.

Shoot Out Star

Just once... thought Victor, just once, just one time, just one GODDAMN time... “Come on, Vic! Come on!” Marie stamped her foot and tried to not breathe through her nose. “No good. It stinks, Vic-tor! It stinks like pee!” Victor didn’t respond. Marie almost never came to Coney Island anymore, especially not at the tail-end of the season. Now the sun was going down. Shivering, she felt in her purse for her cigarettes and lighter. She caught her reflection in the lighter’s chrome case. Marie, Marie... she said to herself, ...thirty-five years old and look at you. You’ve got to take better care of yourself. She lit a Camel and dragged deep. Pulling the cigarette from her lips, she squinted at it and thought the death wish reasserts itself...

Our Last Show

Stan stood outside the Showcase jump-starting a new Marlboro. He pinched the butt of the previous smoke between his thumb and middle finger. With a theatrical flourish he extends his right arm and flicks the butt in a wide arc out over the parking lot. The ash separates from the filter and lands on the hood of the Savage Four's Dodge van. Don, lead singer of the Savage Four, owner of the Dodge Van, stops in mid-sentence to watch the ash burn a black circle into the white paint. "Excuse me," he says to Tyja, his girlfriend, before stepping over to where Stan holds court.