WFMU's Beware of the Blog

"You Shouldn't Have!", Pt. 1

With Christmas fast approaching (just 14 shopping days left!) I thought I'd help out a bit by suggesting gifts sure to induce jaw-drop in your recipients. Let's start with fake animals...

This year's Talking Billy Bass is Buck The Animated Stag. Click here for a video of Buck in action.

If Buck is a little cheesy by your standards, check out Animal Makers, creators of David Letterman's Late Show Bear. They design and build animatronic critters for Hollywood - and maybe that special someone on your gift list!

Back & To The Left

You all know what happened 42 years ago today in Dallas...

Order NOW To Guarantee Delivery By Christmas!

I usually make my own Christmas cards but time is collapsing on me this year - so I checked eBay and came across the awesome Sebastian Bach card you see to the right. The same seller also has cards featuring Cinderella, Def Leppard, Poison and even Rick Springfield! Nothing says "Birth of the Saviour" like Rick Springfield in your mailbox, eh?

Virtual Drums N' (Kee) Bass

If you haven't been to the Audio Playground Synthesizer Museum lately, its founder Joseph Rivers has done some amazing work compiling virtual models of many vintage drum machines, everything from the Boss Dr. Rhythm R-55 to those crummy Mattel Synsonics drums of the 1970's. There's also a page with a ton of sampled Soundsheets (also known as Flexidiscs) from synthesizer and drum machine manufacturers (like Linn) and even more virtual keyboards, including the Rheem (probably better known for their water heaters) Kee bass keyboard, featuring switchable "Mellow/Fuzz" mode.

Help Chris T. To Not Feel Like A Fraud

As mentioned in the recent Blast O' Hot Air, WFMU has a new Web-Only morning lineup from 6 AM - 9 AM: WFMU Unshackled! My podcast, Communication Breakdown, heard Friday mornings - morphed into a three-hour no-holds barred music and talk show (a podcast version is no longer available - ask the lawyers why), with much more music than I'd like. It's been years since I faked being a DJ (which doesn't stand for Dumb Jerk, as some people think...) and doing two music-crammed programs (the third show never happened due to technical problems) has me feeling like the biggest fake this side of our President.

Listeners have praised my programming when I do the occassional fill-in - and I certainly feel I have good taste in music - but that's not NEAR enough to be called a WFMU DJ, not IMHO (or even IHOP). Around here it's like saying you have good balance and then trying to join a trapeze act. WFMU DJs have mad skills. Okay, some of them are technically inept but these are people with massive record collections, who listen to a ton of new music and who are forever on the hunt for interesting slabs to lay on you, dear listener. Me? I haven't bought a new CD in years. With my two jobs and other responsibilities, I almost never get to hear WFMU in real-time. I cram my iPod with podcasts and other MP3s and swear I'll get to them someday - but - as John Fogerty once wrote - "someday never comes". But it's okay. I long ago came to the realization that my role at WFMU is as talkshow host. I've even become so sensitive to using the proper label that I've corrected people who refer to me as a DJ vis a vis WFMU. It's not that I'm trying to be a snob - it's just that I have too much respect for what WFMU DJs actually do. I'm not in that pantheon. I run my mouth. I make my opinion known. I rant. I rave. I take calls. And the problem - so far - with the new Unshackled Communication Breakdown is that the calls just ain't coming in. This is partly because the thing is so new - I understand that. People have to discover it, know it's there, get used to the idea of a completely FCC-Free zone. Then they have to pick up the phone and call 201-536-WFMU (9368). But part of it - a BIG part - is the cost involved with calling from other parts of the country and the world. That's why I'm thrilled to report yet another step forward, technologically-wise, for WFMU that will allow you to call Communication Breakdown from anywhere FREE OF CHARGE. It's called Skype - you've heard about it recently because eBay just bought the company. Their basic software is free and allows you to use your Mac or PC as an Internet telephone. All you need is a decent internet connection and some kind of microphone hooked up to your computer.

In addition to regular calls, I'll be taking Skype calls Friday morning at my brand new Skype contact name - CommBreak - but be aware: you'll need to lower your computer's volume when I put you on the "air" - or SCREECHING FEEDBACK will occur (how I look forward to yelling, "TURN YOUR COMPUTER DOWN!" the first time THAT happens). CommBreak is also set up with voice-mail, so download Skype and leave me a message - and let's keep marching into the 21st century together!

t.A.T.u. - Lesbianism + White Power x Twin Blondes = Prussian Blue

Our own DJ Monica alerts us to a NY Daily News story about the latest hatecore incarnation, Bakerfield, California's Prussian Blue. But don't forget all the old school music-making hatemongers like Angry Aryans, Brutal Attack, Johnny Rebel and Skrewdriver, all available at the Resistance Records website. After you've seen the stupidity and hatred on display there, check out this fascinating Southern Poverty Law Center report on the founder of Resistance Records - it's not what you think.

No Longer "Perfect Together"

Many, MANY years ago I wrote an article for our now-defunct program guide, L.C.D., suggesting new slogans for New Jersey license plates. This was before all the diversification, with the "Battleship New Jersey" plates and those friggin' "Shore To Please" plates. Back then, Jersey plates were imprinted with THE GARDEN STATE - which seemed trite and out-dated to me. I suggested silly stuff like:

• "It Glows In The Dark!"
• "The 55 Gal. Drum State"
• "Sure It's Toxic - But We Love It!"

While THE GARDEN STATE may be our nickname, NJ & YOU: PERFECT TOGETHER has been our slogan since the early 80's, popularized by a serious of commercials with then-Governor Thomas Kean intoning the tag-line in his upper-crusty patrician sneer: "New Jer-zee and you; PURRR-fect Together". Then we tried the slogan "What A Difference A State Makes", which bombed as badly as Jim McGreevey's turn as Governor.

It now seems our new, improved hetero Acting Governor, Richard Codey (sorry - I mean Acting Governor The Very Hetero Richard Codey - it was McGreevey who was "acting hetero") has commissioned a new New Jersey slogan, paying one consultant $260,000 to come up with the godawful "New Jersey: We'll Win You Over." In an admission that this latest slogan is as pathetic as it is desperate, the Governor is reaching out to us, his peeps, for suggestions. You can call 609-984-9893 and shout your bon mots into the phone or go to nj.gov/slogan and fill out an electronic form. It's quick and easy and I've already submitted a few myself:

• "Kiss Her Where It Smells: New Jersey"
• "New Jersey: Where The Sopranos Work & Play"
• "Only The Strong Survive: New Jersey"

Okay, that last one I stole. But I want to see your originals - especially if you're submitting them through official channels. Remember: "WFMU & YOU: PURR-FECT TOGETHER!"

WFMU Vanity Plate created at http://www.acme.com/licensemaker/

"The Worst Talk Show Host Ever..."

Andy Bowers, writing for Slate, crowns Seven Second Delay "Pod Pick Of The Week". Quoting Mr. Bowers:

Imagine a New Jersey call-in radio show where the host doesn't want to talk to you. As he moans about having to deal with the public, he also berates listeners for not calling in more. When he answers the phone, he mockingly mutters the talk-radio clichés before they can: "Love the show," he says in his best bored curmudgeon voice. "First-time caller, longtime listener, blah, blah." He routinely derides the audience and his co-host as hippies. And he spends a good portion of his weekly, hourlong time slot asking his co-host when they can go home.

Read the entire article here: Pod Pick Of The Week

Monkey Vs. Robot?! No! Monkey PLUS Robot...

Rich Hazelton alerts us to the existence of the creepiest "toy" to grace the 2005 Holiday Season: the Alive Chimpanzee from WowWee Toys. Click here to download a short video clip.

"...and other attactive & dynamic women..."

Because the now-defunct Aerial View somehow made it into a directory of talk radio shows, I'm constantly getting e-mail from PR firms about stupid shit like this:

*   Are you a man who places Great Value on his free time?

**Are you tired of going to lounges/clubs and having to compete with trust fund kids and starving actors for the attractive, intelligent women that really want to meet YOU?

*** What is a list of new business contacts and new friends worth to you?

As a man who works 70+ hours a week on Wall St,and who answered YES to the above question, I created Creme de la Femme for men like us. It is a new and exciting organization that is dedicated to bringing NY's elite together. Every other month, we hold parties at some of NYC's best lounges and clubs, where our network of doctors, bankers, lawyers and entrepreneurs get to meet pre-selected models, actresses and other attractive and dynamic women in a non club-like setting. We are NOT a dating service, but rather, a networking service, where our proprietary database enables our members to attend our events and potentially meet new friends or business contacts and yes, even a "significant other." In short, we are the perfect meeting place for successful men (ages 25-45) who don't have the time to go out to clubs and bars 5 nights a week and want to use their free time to meet the most attractive and friendly women in NYC.

If this is something that interests you, please respond back with a bit of information about you and a photo or 2, as we pride ourselves on pre-selecting ALL members, not just our beautiful women. All information will be kept in the strictest confidence, and further information will be sent upon receipt.

Is your skin crawling yet? Speaking of which, Creme de la Femme sounds like a feminine hygiene product, no? LATE BREAKING NEWS: It IS a feminine hygiene product! Perhaps you can come up with a better name for a service that hooks "successful men" up with "attractive and friendly women"?

They Did The Mash, They Did The Climate Mash

Admit it, you thought Bobby "Boris" Pickett was dead, didn't you? Just in time for Halloween, the only recording artist to place the SAME song on the Billboard Top 100 THREE times (#1 in 1962, #91 in 1970 and #10 in 1972) is back with a global-warming parody of his own Monster Mash: Climate Mash.

Misstrauischem Verstand Weitergehen

Wir werden in einer Falle verfangen
die ich nicht gehe heraus
weil ich liebe Dich zu viel Baby

kann Warum nicht koennen Sie sehen
was Sie mich antun
wenn Sie nicht einem Wort glauben das ich sage?

Wir koennen nicht zusammen
mit misstrauischem Verstand weitergehen
und wir koennen nicht unsere Träume
auf misstrauischem Verstand errichten

So wenn ein alter Freund den ich kenne
würden die Tropfen vorbei zum zu sagen hallo
I jedoch Misstrauen in Ihren Augen sehen?

Hier gehen wir wieder zu fragen
wo ich Sie kann nicht sehen gewesen bin
dass diese Risse ich schreien real sind

Wir koennen nicht zusammen
mit misstrauischem Verstand weitergehen
und zu sein kann nicht unsere Träume
auf misstrauischem Verstand errichten

Oh liess unsere Liebe überleben
oder zu trocknen liessen die Risse von Ihren Augen
uns lassen nicht einen guten Sachewürfel

Wenn Honig Sie mich kennt
sind nie zu Ihnen
Mmm yeah yeah gelegen

The Replacement Lyrics

I was in the A & P just now and the awful Toto song Rosanna came piping over the PA. You know the number:

All I wanna do when I wake up in the morning is see you eyes
Rosanna, Rosanna
I never thought that a girl like you could ever care for me
Rosanna, etc., etc.

I went into an immediate defensive posture against this uninvited, insipid musical attack and did a little lyric replacement:

All I wanna do when I wake up in the morning is touch your hair
Rosanna Rosannadanna
Like my grandmother says "It's always something" with a girl like you
Rosanna Rosannadanna

Lyric replacement is an absolute necessity when you're in the inescapable grasp of some crap song or another. At the garage I used on Long Island, the mechanics were absolute experts at it. Here's their take on the overworked Elton John assault:

Don't let your son go down on me
Although I like 'em young... he always smells of pee
Etc.

Come Christmas time I'm thoroughly armed with all the song parodies gleaned as a kid from Mad magazine:

We three drunks from Omaha are
spending Christmas Eve in a car
driving, drinking
suddenly weaving into a wrong way lane
O-O-O-H! Fifth of Bourbon, fifth of Scotch
and some Vodka on the rocks...

Like Bruno says in Hitchcock's Strangers On A Train, "Criss-cross, Guy." I've offered some replacement lyrics here but I'm never fully armed, so please share some of yours via "Comments". You kill my song and I'll yours...

It's Almost Like Not Living Here At All!

I was coming home to Hoboken tonight via the ferry from Manhattan and had to pass the pile of dirt that used to be the Maxwell House factory. Wrapped around the construction site are huge banners proclaiming the future home of Maxwell Place ("On The Hudson"), with the tagline: New York State of Mind, Brand New Sense of Place.

Does that mean this upscale, luxury development will be the future home of people who are ashamed to be living in New Jersey? With this in mind, I suggest some other real-estate slogans:

Hoboken: Nearly Good Enough

New Jersey: Just Passing Through

Home Is Where You Spend As Little Time As Possible

NJ: A Deathtrap, A Suicide Rap - Get Out While You're Young

Now let's hear some of yours...

The Lieutenant Wore A Purple Ribbon

It was around 10:30 on an unseasonably warm Sunday evening in October of ‘97 when a commotion began outside my Hoboken apartment that would eventually lead to one of my stranger nights in New Jersey.

I was on the couch, watching a movie, when the noise level outside got louder and angrier than usual. I went to the front window, pulled back the curtains and saw flashing lights coming down the block. Curious, I stepped outside just in time to see an upstairs neighbor corralling a young kid against a fence next door. The neighbor is a powerful guy and the kid – no older than fourteen – looked scared, like a trapped animal.

The cops were soon out of their cars, grabbing the kid and getting some details from my neighbor. When he was through, he came over to where I was standing with some other neighbors and explained that the kid – and some accomplices – were breaking into cars on the block. “I think you better go check your car. I saw them down there.” he said to me, pointing to where my car was parked.

Fearing the worst, I walked fast up the block to my car and got a sinking feeling when I noticed the convertible top unsnapped. I checked inside and (luckily) nothing was missing but a crappy old umbrella. The thieves were scared off before they had time to do any real damage.

I walked back to my building and thanked the neighbor for grabbing the kid. The cops asked me if anything was missing. I told them about the umbrella, said it was no big deal, and was surprised when they asked me to come downtown and swear out a complaint anyway (without complaints they had no case). I hemmed and hawed but then they offered me a ride (I was mostly concerned about losing my hard-won parking space).

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.

The Church of Neil Peart Without Neil Peart

In what I fervently hope becomes a trend, legendary Rush drummer Neil Peart's 30th Anniversary drumkit - affectionally known as the S.S. Professor - is going on tour... without him.

Now if they'd only send Syd Barrett's Binson Echorec out on the road...

Do You Know What It Means...

...to miss New Orleans? I do. It doesn't seem possible that a city so vital to this country's history, culture and economy could be cruelly abandoned to its fate but the New Orleans I've been back to time and again is gone. If I feel this devastated I can only imagine the burden my friends down there carry, one of whom was evacuated by the National Guard Saturday night as I was putting together Communication Breakdown #12. This latest podcast is a tribute to the Lost City of New Orleans and features:

• Mayor Nagin's emotional interview with WWL-TV
• A Midnite-Call-A-Friend Segment to Andy Nicastro who helps dissect the disaster
• An interview with Jim Marshall, aka The Hound, about his lost business and residence in New Orleans
• A recording of an Alex Chilton-led tribute to The Coasters held at the Mermaid Lounge in N.O. on December 29, 1997.

If you haven't done so already, please find a charity or aid organization that is doing good work, like AmeriCares, and donate to the relief effort.

The photo of me with a Dixie beer was taken by Kaz on my first visit to New Orleans in 1987.

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

"Displacing the Zionist Influences in this Nation"

James Kelso (pictured here with David Duke, standing in front of Hitler-sympathizer Charles Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis), moderator of stormfront.org's online forum and Friend of Stormfront, working out of David Duke's offices in St. Tammany Parish, Lousiana has this to say on the subject of Cindy Sheehan:

One reason that the Left has, for fifty years, routinely done a better job of political progaganda than we Patriots have, is that they are ready at the drop of a hat to go out into the streets to protest.
We debate.
There is no downside to dignified street activism. The Crawford, Texas encampment by Cindy Sheehan is arguably the single most brilliant tactical propaganda move in decades. What Cindy Sheehan did was simply to "do it".
She just got in her car and drove to Crawford to physically announce her righteous moral stand against a war based on lies.
We can do the same thing. We can also take advantage of the entire media of the world being in Crawford for the next few days. Or we can let the opportunity go. We can worry about whether our message will be properly understood. Or we can do what Cindy Sheehan did....just show up in front of Bush when he is cornered like a rat lolling about at his ranch. Clearing brush, riding his $3,000 bicycle, and catching up on his reading.
A basic principle is that "if you don't come to the dance, you don't get the girl". We're going to the dance.

When I first heard about this, as I filled in for Prof. Dum-Dum tonight on WFMU, my immediate thought was "Karl Rove". Call me paranoid...

A World of Pain

The Coen Brothers' 1998 release The Big Lebowski has taken on beyond-cult status, with an annual gathering of the faithful on two coasts. The 2005 LebowskiFest NY is on the horizon: tickets go on sale today at 3 PM. The Dude abides...

Image of Jesus from http://members.aol.com/WPRob/lebowskibook.html

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.

Purple Mountains Peasantry

While on the job recently for NPR, I attended a Colorado Rockies game with none other than Bob Weston, fellow engineer and Indie-Rock legend. Bob was a member of Volcano Suns, is a member of Shellac and has produced scores of records for Archers of Loaf, The Coctails, etc. He's also worked live sound for Mission of Burma and - according to Jim DeRogatis, remains "one of the most in-demand bass players".

Bob and I were working in Boulder, Colorado for the gameshow Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me (WWDTM) when we found ourselves with a Wednesday night free. We drove into Denver, made our way to Coors Field and beheld the inept wonder that is the Colorado Rockies. It was a beautiful night to sit in a nearly-empty baseball stadium, drink beer, eat hot dogs and ignore the boring action on the field.

It's been years since I've been to a Major League game (I prefer catching the Brooklyn Cyclones or the Newark Bears) and I found myself annoyed at the constant racket coming out of the PA system. Every player has his own "theme" song, every play is yet another cue for a song tidbit, usually lunkhead rock like Jon Bon Jovi. When the crappy rock music wasn't blasting, the in-love-with-his-voice announcer was babbling inanely. I longed for one moment when I might hear the players  (we were just three rows from the field) but it never came. When we finally left I had a mile-high headache and the Milwaukee Brewers had won 2 - 0, racking up both runs in the first inning.

I'm A Cliche

If there's one thing I've always tried to avoid in life it's being a cliche. But my travels around Manhattan this month have me convinced that all tourists should die.

I hate hating tourists. I want to be the kind of man who'd gladly welcome them to the place where I spend most of my week: "Thanks for visiting New York!", I said, waving politely. I want to be that kind of man... but I'm not. I long to have a better nature, be more tolerant, more patient... and then it gets hot like this, like a huge blowdryer is trained on you constantly and you just want to kick the guts out of every tourist you see.

August is the absolute worst. They come in from everywhere. From Europe, from China and Japan... and from Bumfuck, USA. From New Jersey and all-over the tri-state area. They stumble, dazed, through the Port Authority, spilling out onto Eighth Avenue blinking their eyes at the bright lights. They stand around in packs, figuring out which way to go next. They get on the bus, ask a bunch of questions and step off again. Or they decide to ride and don't have change or a MetroCard, so they thrust two one-dollar bills at the driver, like he's gonna stick them in his pocket. Once they find some sucker who'll cough up change, they refuse to move to the back of the bus. They cluster near the rear door, whole families, every one of them wearing a fanny-pack. And they just won't move when it comes time. They can't get out of the goddamn way. If there's an unofficial slogan in New York, it's this: "KEEP IT MOVING".

See? I've become a cliche. I'm complaining about tourists. I disgust myself. I should be talking about how much money they pump into the economy, how they make New York a world-class city, a truly international destination. But BOY do tourists SUCK.

I'll stop now.

Phishing Magician

You've no doubt heard about the phenomenon phishing, whereby scammers e-mail you pretending they're from legitimate companies (banks, credit card companies and online retailers) with whom you do business and threaten the status of your account, claiming they'll shut you down unless you click on the embedded hyperlink and "verify" certain information. These criminals are hoping you'll be so swayed by the official-looking graphics and stern tone ("...access to your account will be limited. This is a fraud prevention measure meant to ensure that your account is not compromised.") that you'll gladly give up personal info (passwords, account numbers, etc.) which will allow them to steal your identity and rob you blind.

When I first started getting phishing e-mails (or "spoofs" as they're called) they were well-written and reasonable, almost genteel: We regret to inform you that your eBay account has been suspended due to concerns we have for the safety and integrity of the eBay community. Convincing. Luckily, I'd heard of phishing and knew not to be deceived. You'd think the phishers would become more sophisticated with time -  but the quality has fallen off sharply as more dilettantes jump into the fray. The formerly pleading tone is now accusatory, threatening:

Ignoring our request, for an extended period of time, may result in account limitations or may result in eventual account closure.

We regret to inform you that your eBay account has been suspended due to the violation of our site policy below: False or missing contact information - Falsifying or omitting your name, address, and/or telephone number (including use of fax machines pager numbers, modems or disconnected numbers).

Misspelling, incorrect punctuation and mangled syntax have become common and are more obvious tip-offs:

If you choose to ignore our request, you leave us no choise but to  temporaly suspend your account.

We need to inform you that during our security reform we are asking every user to become ID Verified, this security measure will protect our customers from account thefts and any other fraudulent activities.

Note: Requests for information will be initiated by PayPal Business Development; this process cannot be externally requested through Customer Support. Sincerely

Please do not reply to this e-mail. Mail sent to this address cannot be answered. For assistance,secure your account log in to your PayPal account and choose the "Help" link in the footer of any page.

You have received this email because we have strong reason to believe that your eBay account had been recently compromised.

For both, our and your security, we are asking you to activate an online account on our database.

It often seems as if English is the sender's second language:

Due to our new services you have to pay for your eBay fees. You can pay with your credit/debit card. We will ask for your credit/debit card only once. We will charge your account once per month. However you will receive a confirmation request in about 24 hours after the credit/debit card is authorized. You have 24 hours from the time you'll receive this e-mail to complete this eBay Request.

If you think you've been phished, forward the spoof e-mail to the legitimate company being impersonated or send it to reportphishing@antiphishing.org (follow the instructions found here). Forward the more entertaining ones to me: ct@wfmu.org

Geoffrey Holder

On the way home, I thought of all the clever things I should’ve said. When he said, “You shouldn’t talk to strangers, I should’ve said. “But you’re not a stranger anymore. I know all about you. I know what club you went to last night and what room you were in. I know who didn’t make it there. I know WAY too much. That’s the point.”

Or when he said, “Why don’t you just mind your own business?” I should’ve said, “You’ve MADE it my business. That’s the problem.”

Or take his opening gambit, “Do you have a problem?” I could’ve replied, “Yes. You. YOU’RE my problem.” The clever shit always comes to you after the fact. In the moment it’s just you and him.

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...

Know Your Psychoactives

Erowid is an organization dedicated to providing accurate, truthful information about "...psychoactive medications, entheogens, herbs, and recreational drugs". Thousands of contributors world-wide share their experiences in the Erowid Experience Vault, where Nemo has this to say about his first experience with Methamphetamine:

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.

We Need More Fodder For The Cannons

I had another migraine-inducing experience at the Best Buy Secaucus today. I went in looking for a new receiver (my AKAI circa-1982 has died) - thinking I'd go the whole "home theater" route - and found nothing in a black finish. Everything's silver these days. WTF? Who declared silver the new black? Silver sucks as a finish for home audio components: I want something that disappears in the dark. But I'd already been to P.C. Richard and Circuit City (skipped 6th Ave. Electronics: heard bad things) and Best Buy was my last hope of having a new system in by the evening.

As I negotiated the aisles, trying vainly to shut out the utter cacophony, I found my progress blocked by a young family playing video games on a demonstrator. I couldn't squeeze past them so I turned left at the DVD section and found myself in the "gaming" area. I'd been focused on my receiver search but was now struck by the number of game titles and the people snatching them up. It's naive but I'm constantly amazed by the popularity of video games. It's a huge industry and - like pornography - the technology is cutting-edge. The latest innovations include Wi-Fi online play with multiplayer mode allowing up to sixteen others to join you in killing everything that moves. That's because most of the multiplayer games are "shooters", involving combat of one sort or another. It might be "Sword & Sandal" battle like God Of War (Even the immortals will fear death), set in ancient Greece, or a "Black Bag" scenario like Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six: Lockdown, (You hunt down a few terrorists, blow off some heads with your sniper rifle, and use night vision to stalk each other in the dark.) or - from the same company - America's Army: Rise of a Soldier.

The tagline for America's Army" - "Our Game Developers Don't Rely On Imagination." - plays up the fact it's "The Official U.S. Army Game". At the developer Ubisoft's website, part of the description reads: Built in partnership with the U.S. Army, this game offers the most true to life Army experience, allowing you to create a soldier and take him through the high risk excitement of an Army career (does that include returning home to reduced Veteran's benefits?). Intense single player missions and high adrenaline multiplayer action build the skills of your soldier and advancing (sic) him (apparently, there are no women in "America's Army") through his career . If it sounds like that was written by someone for whom English is a second language, it probably was: Ubisoft is a French corporation, with its North American headquarters in Montreal. It's nice to know our tax dollars help a French company "...ensure the highest level of realism in any military game in existence." But if Ubisoft enlists "Real Special Forces operatives (to) consult game designers." what does the Army get in return? Just the most realistic indoctrination tool possible...

A Real Revolution

For Independence Day I thought I'd share this little gem (MP3) I discovered years ago on a thrift shop cassette. Apparently recorded as an "aural invite", this re-working of The Beatles Revolution is guaranteed to get John Lennon spinning in his grave.

So you can sing along at home, I've transcribed the lyrics:

You know we have the right solution - well you know -
we all love the Slim-Fast plan.
Guaranteed health & nutrition - well you know -
you can trust the goodness in a can.
And when you talk about weight-reduction
don't you know that you can count us in.

Don't you know we love to be
So slim... (x3)

You know that it's a revolution
have you heard
about the latest Slim-Fast lines
boffo pretzel twists & cheese curls,
frozen entrees - delicious frozen de-lite.
For only thirty-eight dollars & fifty cents a week
you can have all the Slim-Fast that you can eat.

Don't you know we love to be
So slim... (x3)

Commemorating 65 Years of Racism

Mexico has put their collective foot in it again with the release of these commemorative Memin Pinguin stamps, hot on the heels of President Vicente Fox's racist remarks in May. The cartoon character has been around since the 1940's and apparently takes jobs even Mexicans don't want...

See the BBC News article here.

My Bicycle Masters Boardwalk And Quagmire With Aplomb...

Tom Nuttall's boneshaker was at the center of Deadwood's big plot turn this season. Though I'm not quite sure it was a boneshaker, which are made of wood, with wooden wheels shod in iron. The frame of Tom's bike appears to be metal and the tires rubber, which would make it a "penny farthing", as the English called them - the penny (front wheel) being much larger than a farthing (rear wheel).

Both the boneshaker and the penny farthing are hi-wheel bikes, with pedals welded directly to the huge front wheel (large to allow for more distance with each revolution), a seat mounted way up the frame and a tiny rear wheel. Like today's SUVs, the center of gravity on these bikes caused them to tip over at the slightest provocation.

If you'd like a boneshaker all your own there are companies making modern replicas. For a normal bike, check out Worksman. Based in Ozone Park, NY, Worksman is American's oldest bike company, building commercial and industrial bikes (you've seen them delivering pizzas and carting ice cream). Worksman also builds tandems, trikes, recumbents, folding bikes, etc. They have a 'recreational" line that includes the Coney Island Cruiser and a tough-as-nails model with kevlar tires and drum brakes, dubbed the Rush Hour Urban Assault Vehicle. I bought a used one some years back on eBay and it ranks among the most sensible purchases I ever made. Damn thing is built like a tank.

Just 363 Days 'Til The Next Mermaid Parade

What a weekend! I'm still recuperating from my stint as MC of the 23rd Annual Mermaid Parade in Coney Island this Saturday. It's exhausting work, keeping a spiel going for nearly three hours as hundreds of thousands watch. But after sixteen years of running my mouth non-stop (with an able assist the last few years by the one-and-only Kay Sera, Brooklyn's Beloved Karaoke Lady) I'm just glad when it doesn't rain.

The parade this year was a good one and I'm sorry if you missed it - but all hope is not lost. I'll be incorporating a sizable chunk of the first half of the parade in the new Communication Breakdown (CB), available at podcast.wfmu.org at some point today.

Other segments of CB #7 include:

• On location at the WFMU Yard Sale with "Black Tights" Man.
• The Like Lady: Overhead on the NY - Hoboken bus, using the word "like" every few seconds.

The next CB is set to drop Monday, July 11th and will feature the second half of this year's Mermaid Parade, including the coronation of rock legend David Johansen as King Neptune and the beautiful  Karmen Guy as our Queen Mermaid.

This coming weekend is another busy one for me: I'm filling in for Laura Cantrell on the Radio Thrift Shop Saturday and for Glen Jones in Jonesville Station on July 4th, taking YOUR calls about independence.

Thanks to Max for the great shot of me with David Jo!

Mermaid Parade

It's hard to believe but the Mermaid Parade is upon us once more. Begun in 1983 by the Officially Unelected Mayor of Coney Island, Dick Zygun, the Mermaid Parade is successor to the Coney Island Mardi Gras, which ran from 1903 to 1954. A naughty-but-nice family-friendly bacchanal celebrating the return of summer and the DIY aesthetic, the parade lures thousands of participants of all ages and sizes, who don elaborate costumes and compete for trophies, including:

• Best Little Mermaid
• Best Mermaid
• Best Neptune
• Best Drill Team
• Best Marching Team
• Best Antique Car
• Best Float

I've been MC of the Mermaid Parade since 1989 (the same year Aerial View began) and I'm still amazed I get through it every year (the last few parades I've been immeasurably helped by my co-MC, Kay Sera, "down on the street"). It's like a three hour LSD trip without the acid (if anyone's thinking of doing acid and coming to the parade, DON'T: remember, "set and setting"). Behind my podium on the reviewing stand, I'm at the center of the action, dodging tossed beads, showers of candy, beer cans, the occasional bottle of whiskey - you name it. These are bribes, something heartily encouraged by the corrupt "jurors" who award the aforementioned trophies. How does one become a juror? Is there an election? Does one work one's way up the ladder, from municipal court, to circuit judge, to parades in general, etc? NO! One coughs up a healthy donation to Coney Island USA, the arts organization behind the parade.

The corner of Surf Avenue and 10th Street, in the shadow of the Astroland's Cyclone Rollercoaster is where the action (and PA) is, so show up early (Noon-ish) and snag a spot for the best view. For more background, here's an excellent write-up on the 2004 Mermaid Parade.

Yard Sale Preparation

Here you see Cosmic Cowboy, Scott Williams and Ken Freedman sifting through WFMU's dead technology room, looking for suitable Yard Sale items. Ken especially agonized over an old Lafayette receiver he's been lugging around since his college days - can you really put a price on such memories? Yes!

Join us in our parking lot (next to 66 York Street in downtown Jersey City) this Saturday, June 18 from 10 AM to 4 PM for tons of $1 LPs and CDs and stacks of previously important, somewhat outmoded low, medium and high-fidelity equipment.

Many of your favorite FMU "personalities" will also be unloading their own personal stashes of porn and weaponry (maybe not weaponry) - so even if all you do is steal music, there will be something for you to buy!

Drunks

I've never been one for public drunkenness. My embarrassment quotient is too low. My hometown, Hoboken, is LOUSY with public drunks. I hear some now, their strident laughter wafts through my air conditioner as they stumble back to their cars to join you on the roadways of New Jersey.

For years Hoboken's had a reputation as a party town. Actually, the first time I visited (1982 or '83) was to a party my friend Kit gave on Park Avenue and 13th Street. A few years later I'd moved to Tenafly and was headed down River Road almost every night to hang out with Kit or Tom and Jim on Hudson around the corner from Maxwell's, or Kaz on Willow. We'd get together, drink, smoke, talk. laugh - and sometimes play poker (we were WAY ahead of the poker curve). Even with all the cheap beer, cheap whiskey, cheap gin and cheap Foodtown tonic I wouldn't be caught dead puking or pissing on the street. Maybe it's because I once got a ticket for public urination.

Classic Aerial View Archive

Since the demise of Aerial View on March 18 I've been making older programs available as MP3 archives. Currently, shows from Fall of 1993 are featured. When I began digitizing old airchecks I tried to keep the archive date and current date aligned. A show dated May '93 would be available May '05, for instance - it didn't work out that way. There's a gap in the fossil record and until I chase down all cassettes from the "early years", the archives will be out of step. Listening last night - as I converted the cassette into an MP3 - I discovered it's refreshing to hear the callers and I reference November and Thanksgiving on a hot June day.

The archive available now is one of my favorite shows ever. Titled Civil War Sitcom, it began as a quiz show: I ask if anyone knows why November 19 is a famous date in American history. Once someone guesses it was the date of the Gettysburg Address, we piggy-back on the whole Ken Burns-PBS-Civil War series to imagine a half-hour comedy set during the same era. During the course of the show I welcome people into my "Hollywood Hot Tub Think Tank" to flesh out a pilot episode. Suggested titles include Southern Belles and Whistlin' Dixie. During the mayhem Ken Freedman drops into Studio A at some point. Listen for these callers:

• James Marshall, aka "The Hound", who suggest Andersonville Prison as a setting
• Tom Scharpling, who calls 4 or 5 times with casting and plot suggestions (I keep hanging up on him - I didn't know it was you, buddy!)
• Singer-Songwriter Paula Carino, who suggests a theme song
• Jim Ryan, cartoonist and WFMU stalwart
• The Vanilla Bean, explaining why he might be late to the studio (he was filling in for William Berger)

Other things to listen for include a mention of Pseu Braun's close personal friend Crispin Glover and newly-minted Tony Award-winner Bill Irwin. Jim Teemer's notes for the program appear here.

30 Seconds Over Deadwood

For those of you go-go types who don't have enough time
for Ken Freedman's brilliant 7 Minutes in Deadwood,
I offer this excerpt from Communication Breakdown #1:
click here for 30 Seconds Over Deadwood (mp3, obscenity-crammed).

"Up your giggy with a wah-wah brush..."

Since 1984 the arrival of Memorial Day weekend means the disembarking of thousands of sailors and marines in New York City as part of Fleet Week. Pier 88 on the Hudson River is where you'll find their ships, including the USS John F. Kennedy (Big John), an aircraft carrier more properly thought of as your tax dollars afloat.

This is from the NYC.gov website: "As the Navy's premier community event, Fleet Week New York City is a week long event honoring our nation's maritime heritage. Fleet Week will include dozens of military demonstrations and displays throughout the week, as well as public visitation of many of the participating ships." (Someone needs to do a study and find out just how many Fleet Week babies are conceived during this "public visitation").

Walking around Manhattan and seeing knots of sailors in pea coats and flat hats always puts me in mind of one of my favorite movies of the 1970's, The Last Detail. Based on a book by Darryl Ponicsan with a screenplay by Robert Towne and directed by Hal Ashby (Harold and Maude, Shampoo), the film follows Billy "Bad Ass" Buddusky (Jack Nicholson) and "Mule" Mulhall (Otis Young) as they escort kleptomaniac recruit Larry Meadows (Randy Quaid, in his first role) to a Navy brig. It's a thoroughly naturalistic, bittersweet character study and boasts one of Jack Nicholson's finest performances (he hadn't yet descended into self-caricature). The film doesn't have a single dishonest moment. Get yourself some Heineken ("That's the beer John F. Kennedy drank!"), some hot dogs on sticks and watch it this weekend with a swabbie.

Meadows:    If you're Catholic, do you think it's a sin to chant?

Budduskey: Did it get you laid?

Meadows:    No.

Budduskey: Then Meadows, what the fuck do you want to go on chanting for?

KYOU: Podcast Radio

The illustration to the left - what looks like an Iwo Jima oil derrick-raising  - depicts the latest "idea" that's supposed to save commercial radio's sorry ass: Next week, KYCY (1550 AM) - an Infinity radio station in San Francisco - becomes KYOU: "Open Source Radio", broadcasting listener-submitted podcasts over the air. They'll also netcast and - in an excellent example of media-regurgitation - podcast.

I have a quibble with this. Technically, what KYOU will do is broadcast listener-submitted audio, since that audio isn't a podcast until someone downloads it to an MP3 player.

Being the innovators we are, once again it was WFMU that led the way on the idea of re-distributing listener-submitted audio. Our own Ken Freedman floated this concept for an FM frequency (WAJW) we owned in Michigan City, Indiana: you'd upload audio to a website where listeners could "program" the station by selecting submissions for subsequent broadcast to Chicago and environs (I doubt the Infinity model will allow listeners a voice in what actually makes it into the pipeline). This noble experiment never came to pass because - ultimately - we needed the money we made selling WAJW to WBEZ to buy our Jersey City home.

Image courtesy of kyouradio.com

And a 1, 0, 1, 0...

Staying on the squeezebox theme - whether you knew it or not - the world has been waiting for an all-digital modeling accordion.

Truck Route 1 & 9

April is the cruelest month. April is also National Poetry Month. Here's one I wrote. Write your own.

Truck Route 1 & 9
just before ten,
headed to Jersey City.
Smokestacks below,
Bayonne right -
left lane closed.

Longitudinal Recording Is For Squares, Man!

The next generation of MP3 players will have ten times the capacity of your current machine, once the next great leap in hard-disk storage capacity arrives. It's all explained in this "Schoolhouse Rock" type animation, courtesy of Hitachi Electronics.

Image courtesy of Hitachi.

As Tony Clifton used to say, "Phony Baloney!"

The BBC online is carrying a story about the latest tool in the cyber criminal's bag: bogus blogs!

Thanks to the Tony Clifton Home Page for the image.

Communication Breakdown Blog

My new specially-built podcast Communication Breakdown is available now. You can stream it or download it. It runs about 42 minutes (it was a tough coupla weeks). Speaking of which, I hope to have a new show available every two weeks - and they'll eventually run one solid hour in length.

It's been a long time since I've done a show without phone calls. And I've never done a show that is wholly pre-recorded. I consider this thing a work-in-progress, as I mention on the Communication Breakdown blog. Yes, I created a "space", a place for me and you to "converse". Oh, I know it's not the phone. We're not conversing in real time. But let's talk anyway, eh?

(Is the Pope with Jesus yet?)

That Amityville Horror Crap Again

I was born at Brunswick Hospital, in Amityville, on Long Island - so I feel a special affinity for the town, victim of “America's Most Famous Haunting”. Since 1977, when the book “The Amityville Horror” -  subtitled “A True Story” and purporting to relate the tribulations of George and Kathleen Lutz and family - became a best-seller, the town has been subjected to periodic swellings of the armies of the asinine. They find their way to Montauk Highway (Merrick Road, to the locals), then to Ocean Avenue and number 112 (or what used to be 112 - the address was changed years ago, along with the iconic “eyes of evil” windows) and gape slack-jawed at the place where the Lutzes supposedly spent 28 days fending off buzzing flies, creepy priests, hovering pigs and demonic voices.

Communication Breakdown

On Friday night's Wise Up program I announced the April 1 launch of my new bi-weekly podcast - Chris T.'s Communication Breakdown. The show will be a mix of monologue, vox populi, field recordings, music and more. I'd also love to incorporate phone calls into this new program but I'm still figuring out the best way to do that. One stopgap solution: if you're having difficulty getting yourself heard and would like to be interviewed on Communication Breakdown, e-mail your phone number to ct@wfmu.org, along with the best time to reach you. I know this seems a little clumsy but I'm determined to keep the listeners involved. We'll figure out another arrangement further down the road...

Due to adult content, Communication Breakdown will not be suitable for youngsters or in a work environment.

Aerial View Archivist Jim Teemer: Now the Truth Can Be Told!

Last Friday I hosted my final Aerial View show, wrapping up with an excellent Marathon haul (I should leave more often!) thanks to the fine MC work of Ken Freedman and a multitude of generous listeners. For a moment - toward the end - I got real choked up and thought I might break down on the air, actually start sobbing like a kid watching his ice cream cone drop onto a hot July sidewalk. It didn't happen. I was able to maintain my composure and go out on a high note. Since then it's occurred to me that I probably won't feel the loss until Friday, 6 PM rolls around. Then I'll have to contend with the withdrawal pains...

The End of Aerial View?

In case you hadn't heard, this Friday's Aerial View will be the last ever. Long story short: my job's gone full-time and I'm no longer free on Friday evenings. Since I announced this four weeks ago, listeners have been sending me words of praise and regret... and a TON of questions:

Q: Chris T., I love Aerial View! Isn't there ANYTHING that can be done so you can keep your show?
A: I've tried, BELIEVE me, to reach an accommodation. No dice. Which is the epitome of because I work for a public radio company.

Attracts more attention than by driving a yellow Cadillac...

Of course, we don't actually HAVE sponsors. Our listeners provide all our operating funds. So pledge to the WFMU Marathon right now!

Mercy Mr. Percy Pt. II

Yesterday I told the story of meeting Robert Plant and how he autographed my copy of the Led Zeppelin CD Presence, to be given away as a Grand-Grand Prize during the 2nd Aerial View Marathon show (otherwise known as the last ever Aerial View). I said “Stay Tuned” and here's why... Robert also autographed a First Act Model ME401 electric guitar, donated by Shorefire Media, which we're currently auctioning off on eBay! The auction page is here. The auction will last 7 days and all proceeds will - of course - benefit WFMU.

Check back here later for a link to the auction or search eBay at the aforementioned time for “Robert Plant Autographed Guitar for WFMU”.

Mercy Mr. Percy

It finally happened. I met a member of Led Zeppelin. Robert Plant came up to my workplace Tuesday afternoon, on a PR tour for his new album. Mighty Rearranger. This is hard to admit but I found myself nervous around him. I've met many famous people on the job - everyone from Bill Clinton to Sidney Poitier – and I’m usually calm and collected. But this was someone who played a HUGE part in my childhood.

Rustic Cabin

The Rustic Cabin is where Frank Sinatra first sang professionally, when he wasn't waiting tables, telling jokes and emceeing the night's entertainment. Located in Englewood Cliffs (“ON TOP OF THE PALISADES”), Frank liked the place because they did a regular radio broadcast over WNEW in New York. Harry James, the man who "discovered" Sinatra, first heard him singing over the air from the Rustic Cabin in 1939.

A recent flea-market find, this Rustic Cabin menu dates from the period (1937 - 1939) when Sinatra would've been in attendance. Measuring 8 1/2“ x 11”, it consists of an outer jacket and one inner page, folded in half. Open it up and you see the “A LA CARTE” listing. Imported Sardines are the first item, at 35 cents. You can also get Pickles and Olives (25 cents), Anchovies (40 cents) and Antipasto (50 cents). I’m confused by the heading COLD CUTS. What does that mean? Just a plate of cold cuts? Was there bread? Just below COLD CUTS, the Rustic Cabin offered an amazing number of SALADS: twelve in all. That’s more than any other category, save sandwiches (27).

Midget...

Sleeping On The Job

Let's travel back in time as I reminisce about my highest paying job ever...

I don’t know whether I should try to sleep for two hours or not. I don’t think I can. I won’t be able to get up, despite my alarm clock.  I started training last night: overnight shift in the radio division of CBS on West 57th, engineering the Mutual Radio news. It’s a temporary gig, maybe nine months, probably six - no promise of anything beyond that. I got a call from a guy who got my name from a friend. Before I could butter my toast I’m told to come in and train. And I have to join the IBEW. It’s a union shop. Because it’s a union shop it’s also the highest paying job I’ve ever held: on the over-night shift I’ll earn roughly $65 an hour.

I went in from 1:15 AM to 8:15 AM. It’s my job to run the board, mixing the announcer’s voice with the acts and nat. sound. Acts are actualities, short reports from the scene or soundbytes of politicians and celebrities and authority figures. Nat. sound is natural sound, sounds from the scene, people screaming, brakes squealing, guns firing, etc. All this stuff is culled by cute girls and boys fresh out of journalism school and recorded onto carts. Carts are cartridges, the same size and shape as 8-tracks but made to cue up to inaudible tones. Then they can be fired precisely and - if you’re reading the script - in the right order. It’s not as easy as it sounds. When you fuck up, you fuck up across four or five hundred radio stations and on the Armed Forces Network. Then you have to write a trouble report in triplicate.

Put on your own broadcasts at home...

Kaz: Big In South Korea

The man who first introduced me to WFMU, Kaz, was recently notified that characters from his cartoon Underworld are appearing on bathroom doors in the city of Daejeon, South Korea.

What To Do With Your Spare Time

The Ponderosa Stomp Is Coming!

New Orleans is my second favorite American city. I get down there whenever I can (just not in the summer - NEVER in the summer!). A great reason to visit the Crescent City, if you've yet to go, is the Ponderosa Stomp, presented by the Mystic Knights of the Mau-Mau.

The 4th Annual Stomp takes place April 26th and 27th at the Mid City Lanes bowling alley.

You can check out the likes of Nathaniel Mayer while throwing some rocks.

While in New Orleans you MUST visit the Pharmacy Museum, located in the townhouse of America's first licensed pharmacist. There are trepination drills, medicinal cannabis jars and a lovely courtyard out back where you can sit and eat your lunch.

Synergy & Fatigue

Some years ago I went to work for a little family-run business. One of the two brothers who started the company had come up with a brilliant idea: he saw how the home office market was building, how people were buying laser printers and getting into desktop publishing. He realized no one had paper to run through these new machines. The only paper available was white “Xerox” paper, lightweight stuff.
He got everyone he knew, including his Dad, to lend him money and he started an offshoot business from his brother's office-paper business. He printed up a catalog, rented some mailing lists and was off and running. The company turned a profit its first year.

The entepreneur's dream so far, right?

I came along as employee number 53. I started as a phone operator, someone who took orders from people calling the 800 number. I had been out of work for seven months at the time and would've taken anything.

The company grew incredibly, adding ten employees a month soon after I started. Hiring was based solely on competence: color or age or sexual preference were no barrier to being given a chance to prove yourself. And the brothers were there every day, even their dad, who was in his mid-fifties.

The dad and I would step outside for our cigarette breaks and converse a bit. We talked about Roosevelt, how he pulled the country out of a depression, how the current job market stank, about the fucking Republicans and so on. The father was a very smart man, had always been self-employed, taught his sons how to make their own way in the world. He’d never been rich but he had never been hurting either. He helped his sons when they needed help. He staked them to their seed money.

The sons were good businessmen. They hired one of their best friends to build the company up. All of them liked their employees - or gave that impression. They talked to us like we were friends, called us by our first names, lent us money when we were between paychecks. They gave nice raises and generous bonuses. They threw parties often. The Christmas parties alone were legendary, lavish affairs in huge catering halls. They grew more elaborate every year, with nice gifts and dancing troupes and a full sit-down meal. One Christmas the father stood out in the front room, entreating us to fill up bags from the huge appetizer and dessert spreads on our way out the door.

This policy of generosity extended to the customers. Early on we borrowed the Nordstrom's philosophy: “If the customer is unsatisfied - for whatever reason - do what it takes to make him or her happy”. It was the first lesson taught to new employees. We went out of our way to communicate to customers that we wanted their business, that they could trust us to take care of them. Some customers abused the policy, weaseling free stuff out of the company, but the owners understood it as the price of doing business. The majority of our customers came back time and time again because they knew we they’d end up satisfied with the goods and the service.

Laboratories Use Thousands...

The Kind You Will Like...

Make This Squirrel Lamp!

It's a lamp, it's a squirrel, it's FUN!

Aerial View Ends March 18

Dear Friends In Radio:

I announced this on the air tonight: Aerlal View comes to an end Friday, March 18. It's been on WFMU 16 years and I'm sorry to see it go. My job's gone full-time and I'm no longer free Friday nights.

The Iowa Firecracker Bronwyn will host Friday nights 6 - 7 PM, beginning March 25.

Thanks for everyone's support over the years, especially the staff of WFMU. I've always been given the freedom to do my show as I see fit, and for that I am eternally grateful.

All best,

Chris T.

P.S. Look for “Chris T.'s Cursing Like A Sailor” podcast, sometime in April!

Nazis In Your Town

I grew up on the south shore of Long Island (they capitalize it there: South Shore), in a blue-collar Suffolk County town: Lindenhurst (formerly Breslau. changed in 1891 by the town elders). The German-American Bund marched through Lindenhurst in 1937. There's no discussion of how they were received but I'd guess it wasn't with derision and anger.

The Bund was big business, spending good American dollars with local merchants and vendors. In Yaphank, where they set up a rural retreat -  Camp Siegfried (after the Aryan warrior of myth ) - they'd meet every Sunday: thousands of German-Americans from as far as Ohio, riding the train out from Penn Station to enjoy the fresh air, engage in outdoor activities, eat picnic lunches and consort free of mongrel races.

New Jersey had its own retreat: Camp Norland, in Sussex County.  Howsabout your town? Nazis? Klan? Who are YOUR hometown racists?

Why won't my @#$% iPod record?!

For years I’ve used a Sony Minidisc machine to record stereo audio “in the field”, while hoping and praying some company would make an 'iPod that records”. Yes, I know there are gadgets you can attach to your iPod to turn it into an ersatz recorder - but I’ve heard these add-ons are not really up to the task. I’m looking for something “purpose-built” and it seems my prayers have been answered: two companies – Edirol (formerly Roland) and Marantz  - have just introduced Compact Flash-based handhelds that can record in .wav or MP3 format, at different rates, for direct USB transfer to your computer.

The Edirol R-1 is the smaller of the two but the Marantz PMD660 has XLR microphone inputs and seems a little more “professional”. Both of these machines should begin shipping in March and can be had for around $450 each.

Pepper's Passion

Damn, it’s late. I had no idea it was so late until I turned the TV on and saw The Knife Collector’s Show.  The Knife Collector’s Show, for those of you who HAVEN’T seen it, is  - simply put - one of the finest shows on TV today. It’s part of the Shop at Home or Home Shopping Network or something. It’s a very simple concept: two lunkhead guys try to sell you knives, all night long (the show airs in my neighborhood from 2 AM to 4 AM). They set knives up on turntables and hawk ‘em like there’s no tomorrow. And that’s their job. Over and over, set up knives, cut some paper, whirl some “katanas” around and move the damn stock. But - as with all things in life - it’s the WAY they do it that makes it art.

These guys don’t just come out and show you a knife, tell you the price and flash a phone number on the screen. Oh no. That’s for chumps. They PACKAGE their knives in elaborate sets. Most feature ten to as many as THIRTY knives with some unifying theme: they’re “tactical folders”, they have Kraton handles, they’re military-style, etc. I’m still not sure who needs thirty “tactical folders” but if YOU do and hate to spend more than $3.33 each, then call right now and pay only $99.95 for the whole “Kit & Kaboodle” (that’s the name of the set). BUT WAIT - THERE’S MORE! Howsabout thirty nylon sheathes with Velcro closures and belt-loops? Howsabout this three-sword Samurai-inspired set, thrown in for good measure?

Howsabout Mr. Charm yelling a variation of the following at you OVER AND OVER again:  WE ONLY HAVE 150 OF THESE SETS RIGHT NOW SO CALL THE NUMBER ON THE SCREEN AND GET IN ON THIS AMAZING DEAL!!!  The guys on The Knife Collector’s Show especially like the big knives (insert own joke here). They bring out the sheath, some huge piece of leather, and ooh and ahh like kids with Pokemon cards. My favorite set so far is “Pepper’s Passion”. Pepper is the hot blonde chick on the show. You don’t see her face very often but her midriff is always bared and makes it into more than a few shots whenever she tries to duplicate what the two guys do in their presentations.

She was in the background just now, picking up a big Bowie knife, trying to STAB it down in the middle of one of the turntables on which they display the knives. The turntables are ALWAYS moving, rotating clockwise to show the knives off to best effect, and Pepper was trying to STAB this huge Bowie into the center. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t STAB hard enough to get the knife tip into the wood. She tried it three times, to off-camera encouragement, but the Bowie would stick for a minute then topple over, scattering smaller knives as it went. I was fearful one of the knives would FLY off the turntable and strike Pepper - but the camera cut away fast before she could truly hurt herself.

People are ALWAYS getting cut and stabbed on The Knife Collector’s Show. Last night, the weasely guy (Shawn) set up all these folding knives on the turntable, pulling the blades out to a 90-degree angle and setting the handles down with the blade sticking straight up. It’s a pretty interesting site, all the knives going around in endless circles. But then Shawn stabbed himself in the arm accidentally when he reached across the turntable. He recoiled instantly, yelled “Oww!”, then quickly added, “That hurt!”. Then he could be seen rubbing his elbow. “That was a good one!” he added, before throwing in the “ballistic nylon” sheath. Some day someone will get seriously INJURED.

Occasionally, the guys on The Knife Collector’s Show get real testy with each other. Tonight, the fat guy with the real low Southern-accented “aw shucks” voice (O'Dell) jumped in on Shawn who got a little miffed, even mentioned it on the air. After O'Dell did his schtick about how the Samurai set comes with a light layer of a rust-preventative called “Cosmoline” on it’s carbon steel blades, Shawn - dripping contempt - said, “Actually, I told them that already. But thanks for helping me out, BUD. You just jump in there any old time you like.”

The Knife Collector’s Show goes out live, from somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line, I believe. I'm not positive but I’m betting they’re in Tennessee. I imagine them in a TV studio buried deep in a mountainside, protected against all threats by an army of expert swordsmen. They see to it The Knife Collector’s Show stays on the air despite any threats.  But no one would ever dream of doing away with The Knife Collector’s Show. Let’s face it, guys like knives: they’re phallic and they’re WEAPONS! Sometimes, I try to picture the dude that’s awake somewhere at 3 AM, buying THIRTY knives with a MasterCard - then I get REAL scared.

I’m going to go put a layer of Cosmoline on my carbon steel blades, then hit the hay. It’s easy these days: I just close my eyes and try to count all those tactical folders as they rotate on the turntable, circling around and around and around and around and around....  (Thanks to funkycarter.com for the clip!)

I sure do miss the Cowsills...

My mind works piecemeal: Trudging home in the rain tonight I kept...

...hearing The Rain, The Park & Other Things in my head.

Then I'd mutter to myself,  “That mini-skirted mom sure was sexy.”, a line uttered by the brilliant actor Jeffrey Tambor as Hank Kingsley on The Larry Sanders Show.

Besides making me laugh, Hank's speech always gets me thinking of my sisters and their Cowsills 45's, how they'd Magic Marker their initials on the labels: “DT” for Diana, “JT” for Joanie.

From there I thought of the siblings in the band and how I got to interview them on Aerial View before the legendary show they did at Maxwell's in 1990.

Todd-A-Phonic Todd arranged phone contact and it went something like this... Cowsills Interview MP3

Diesel Do, Or Willie Save The World?

When the Jeep I'd owned since 1989 began giving up the ghost two years ago I decided to go in a completely different direction to replace it. While I loved the utilitarian nature and 4-wheel drive of my Wrangler, the punishing ride provided by its short wheelbase meant I couldn't take a trip of more than an hour in duration without arriving wholly exhausted. My Jeep was great for getting around town but its thoroughly un-areo-dynamic shape (aero-dull?) also meant it got somewhere south of 14 miles per gallon.

While the car was in the shop (yet again) I borrowed a friend's '83 Mercedes Turbo Diesel and came to appreciate its styling, ride and engineering. Its 5 cylinder engine is also capable of 30 MPG or more and I remembered hearing about folks who'd been converting diesels to run on waste vegetable oil they collected from local restaurants (when Rudolf Diesel demonstrated his engine at the Paris Exposition of 1900 he ran it on peanut oil). This became the deciding factor in seeking out my own diesel and I eventually located one on eBay (where else?).

As I did more research on the whole “grease” movement I realized I had neither the time to collect it nor the space to store it and I began looking into biodiesel, which can be used just like regular fuel. The problem is that biodiesel retailers are few and far between in the U.S. and they usually have minimum purchases upwards of 75 gallons and will only sell to fleet owners. Considering the high price we continue to pay as a country to secure a steady supply of petro-based fuel, I wondered why no one was stepping forward to take this thing to the next level - and then someone did: Willie Nelson.

Apparently, Willie's wife bought a car converted to run on “grease” and this led the red-headed stranger to begin investigating alternative fuels. He started running his tour bus on biodiesel and now he's formed a company to bring his own brand, BioWillie, directly to consumers. I have no idea how close to New Jersey he might plunk down a BioWillie pump (even if I can't buy BioWillie in the near future I plan to get my hands on a BioWillie trucker cap!) but just the fact that he's in the game will help raise awareness of alternative fuels. And we need to do whatever we can to disentangle ourselves from the House of Saud.

How Debbie Got Her Spots (So To Speak)

Tell me a story.

Okay.

I have this '68 Les Paul I call Debbie. Let me explain: A Les Paul is an electric guitar, designed - supposedly - by the guitarist Les Paul (formerly Lester Polfuss) and manufactured by a company called Gibson, after Orville Gibson, the founder. So I named my guitar Debbie, as in Debbie Gibson, because I thought it was funny and because Debbie Gibson grew up not far from where I did on Long Island. Debbie has a very special paint job, a truly magnificent coating of metal-flake blue which reminds me of a ceiling in a horrible Italian nightclub, the kind of ceiling that captures the merest whisper of light and irridesces like there's no tomorrow. One of those ceilings that's supposed to approximate the Milky Way or the night sky or some damn thing but just looks like an Italian nightclub ceiling.

I love Debbie in a way I couldn't possibly explain. I COULD explain but I'd sound foolish. Listen: Debbie is the most wonderful thing I've ever held in my hands. She's beautiful and shapely yet ugly and beat up. She weighs a ton (the heavier a guitar, the more it'll sustain). And she gives up this sound, this ungodly boom and clang that hits me dead between the eyes and makes me feel omnipotent. If you hit a chord just right you're rewarded with angel trumpets and devil trombones, like pulling the lever on a one-armed bandit and finding quarters up to your knees a moment later.

I don't hold Debbie as much as I once did. I can't bear to see her these days because we went through some tough times together in a band led by an ex-girlfriend. Debbie reminds me of the ex-girlfriend, which isn't Debbie's fault but is unavoidable and understandable. But I love to look at Debbie and pick her up and plug her in and flail away on her for awhile. She never fails me. I leave her in the corner and turn the lights down and gaze into her paintjob, getting lost in the deep blue metalflake. Wasn't I telling you about her paintjob?

The Big Duh

THE BIG DUH: A True Story

In the rear of the 1980 Lindenhurst High School Yearbook, the alphabetical listing of graduating senior's adacemic and extra-curricular achievements included a future goal:

National Honor Society
Marching Band
Ski Club
To own my own clam boat

Most kids had similar down-to-earth aspirations. One said: To see the Mets win the pennant. I copped a line from Steve Martin: To be all-knowing master of time, space and dimension. It never ran.

Tommy P. also never got his goal into the yearbook. He dropped out in junior year. I knew Tommy – not well – but we’d say “Hello” in the halls. He was like a lot of guys in Lindenhust High: not too bright or terribly ambitous but always playing the angles. He did one thing well: he sold pot.

Once I graduaited, I heard no more about him. During a holiday visit to my mother’s house, I turned on the local news to see Tommy’s parents seated side-by-side on a crummy couch in a sad-looking living-room, tearfully appealing for the return of his head. “We want to bury our son as he lived.” his father said.

All the time I knew Tommy he had a head. What happened?

Apparently, Tommy and an accomplice set up a phony drug deal. They were to sell non-existent cocaine at a late night rendezvous in a shuttered Farmingdale gas station. They brought along a loaded shotgun and a bag stuffed with newspaper. Around three in the morning they meet the money men. Tommy’s accomplice pulls the shotgun. The money men scatter. One of them is clobbered with the butt of the shotgun. It goes off, hitting Tommy full in the chest, mortally wounding him. Never hit someone with a loaded shotgun.

The gas station is now empty, save for Tommy – dead or quickly dying – and the accomplice. He decides he must dispose of the body. Hunting in the dark, he finds a knife. Deciding he'll fashion a mystery corpse, he begins cutting off Tommy’s head. He’s not familiar with the job, having seen too many horror movies where heads pop off like bottle caps. It’s a slow, labor-intensive job. Blood is everywhere. He also slices off Tommy’s hands, placing them in a garbage bag with the head. The torso with the legs goes in another bag.

Both bags are thrown in the trunk of the accomplice’s American sedan. He drives to the Great South Bay. In the pre-dawn gloom, at the end of a long dock, he chucks one bag into the water. He drives a few miles east, to another dock, weghs down the second bag with stones, and flings it in. Then he drives home.

A few days later, the torso bag surfaces. Sufolk County cops arrive, open the bag and are shocked. Will the identity of this bloated headless, handless corpse ever be known?

On the news they never identified the cop who reached into Tommy’s back pocket and pulled out a sopping wet wallet stuffed with ID but I imagine him letting out a big “Duh!”. Like that wouldn’t be the biggest “Duh!” ever.. They must’ve wet their pants over that one down at the precinct house.

When Tommy’s head and hands surfaced several days later, no ID was needed. His parents collected the parts and had a closed-casket funeral. I did not attend.

So long, Tommy.

Jersey City, Orange Tabby

I'm sitting here at quarter to two Saturday morning sipping a nice cocktail - a new concoction, very much needed - pulled together from what I had in the house. I don't know if it already exists or if I’ve created something truly new. I doubt it. How often does THAT happen? It doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that it’s good to sip and it has alcohol in it. I need it for my nerves.

About half an hour ago I was driving home to Hoboken from WFMU. Westbound on Montgomery, headed toward Grove, I see this white and orange object in the oncoming lane. I couldn’t tell what it was. I squinted through my windshield and figured, Piece of clothing. Maybe an old stuffed animal. Then I was upon the thing. It was a dead cat. An orange tabby with a white belly.

I pulled up even with the cat, stopped and put on my four-way flashers. I got out of the car and walked over to where it lay, then crouched above it. Someone had just hit it. I can say that with assurance because I’ve seen many a runned-over cat in my day. Cats that have been hit a second time are pretty much flat. This one wasn’t. There wasn’t much damage on the face up side. If it weren’t for the blood-trail you’d think Kitty had decided to sleep in the street.

The face down side was another story. As I rolled him over, another cat - a gray tabby - came out from an alley on the north side of the street. It ran past me into an alley opposite, where our orange friend was headed, I suppose. Our orange friend had probably been caught completely unawares by an undercarriage. It had been hit mostly in the head. The left side of Kitty's face was smashed in, covered in fresh blood. Its right eye was dislodged, the fur over its right front elbow completely skinned away. There was two feet of blood smeared down the street. Kitty never had a chance.

People go fast down Montgomery. As I stood there, several Hondas and Maximas and Jettas went roaring past, stereos pumping to the max, doing 40 - 50 miles an hour. At that speed and that volume you wouldn’t know if you hit your own grandmother, never mind a fifteen-pound cat.

No one slowed down to see what I was up to. No one slowed down for anything.

I decided to move the cat out of the road before it became permanently bonded to the pavement (I hate when people keep running over some dead thing in the road, never thinking to remove it). I got my hands around its middle, lifted and heard a definite groan. I carried Kitty at arm's length and could swear I felt it purring. I laid it down in a huge planter on the sidewalk.

The planter was full of fresh dirt and I thought I could bury the cat in it but looked around and found nothing to dig with. Then I got alarmed, thinking about the groan I’d heard. Could it be the cat was still alive? I've seen cats get the hell torn out of them and live. I once extracted a cat from under the hood of a neighbor’s Volvo, where it had gotten firmly wedged in the fan blades when the car was started. The cat lost a leg but survived. What about this one? Did it have one life left? I shook it, hard. I squeezed it again. It wheezed once more but the wheezing must've been air being pushed out of its lungs. By me.

I stood around feeling stupid, wishing a cop could pass by so I could tell someone official. I didn't want to leave dead, bloody Kitty there for some kids to see first thing in the morning. I waited around a few minutes and asked passersby if they knew the cat (it had no tags). The first two looked at me strangely. The third guy didn’t. He was an Asian man, late twenties, nicely dressed, coming home from the train, like everyone else at that hour. I brought him over to the planter and he recognized the cat. I told him about finding it in the street and the first thing he said was, “Did you run it over?” I told him “No” but wasn't sure he believed me. He seemed to feel bad about it. He said something I thought sounded funny: “If it's still there in the morning I'll get rid of it.” I offered to do so, saying, “If I had a plastic bag...” I thought he might take the hint and go get me one. “If it's still there in the morning...” he repeated.

“If you have a plastic bag you could take it and bury it.” I said. He nodded. We wished each other good night. I flipped the cat back over on its “good” side then got in my car and drove home. I made the drink when I got through the door. It's almost gone. I think I’ll make another. Here's the recipe:

Three ice cubes, crushed
One teaspoon of honey,
One teaspoon of maple syrup
One teaspoon brown sugar
Two fingers of bourbon (I used Old Grandad)
Orange-Tangerine Juice
Sprig of mint

To one 16-oz tumbler add the ice, honey, maple syrup & brown sugar. Stir. Add  the bourbon. Stir. Fill with Orange-Tangerine juice. Garnish with the sprig of mint

It tastes something like a Tequila Sunrise but the syrup and honey give it sweetness and body. I like it. But I don’t know if it’s new. I’m going to pretend it is just so I can give it a name.

I call it “Orange Tabby”.

How To Talk To WFMU DJs (and Talkshow Hosts) at Parties

WFMU recently held its annual "Holiday" party and - as usual - lots of non-staffers showed up. We encourage this - it's a great way to bring new blood into the station so us aging vampires can suckle - but the initial interaction between those of us "on the inside" and our listeners can often be awkward. Because I kibbitz with the public every week on my show - Aerial View - I'm frequently accosted at these station events. It usually goes something like this:

LISTENER:    "Hey, are you Chris T.?"
ME:            "Yes, yes I am Chris T."
LISTENER:    "You hung up on me last week!"
ME:            "Yeah but... I but... see but..."

See how quickly this conversation dead-ended? I'd like to help WFMU's listeners and staff avoid these pitfalls by outlining some DOs & DON'Ts to remember when meeting for the first time:

LISTENERS:

DON'T
Sneak up on the WFMU DJ/Talkshow Host. You will spook your prey and send him/her fleeing. Always approach the WFMUer from head-on, keeping your hands out of your pockets at all times.

DO
Indicate to the WFMU DJ, etc., that you are not armed by waving or extending a handshake.

DON'T
Mis-identify who you're speaking with. A man at a WFMU Record Fair spent 15 minutes trying to convince me I was Andy Breckman. He kept saying, "You know, the show where you had the guys at the tollbooth and you blah blah blah...." No matter how many times I told him it wasn't my show he was listening to, he wouldn't accept that I wasn't Andy Breckman. I finally owned up to it, told him to go fuck himself and never listen to 7 Second Delay again.

DO
Double-check the identity of your new friend: "Say, you ARE Andy Breckman, right?"

DON'T
Announce to anyone within earshot, "HEY! It's BRONWYN!!!" once you've confirmed the identity of your new WFMU friend.

DO
"Cut to the chase," as they say. Your typical WFMUer has trouble staying focused and may lose interest during a long, rambling, "You won't remember me..." introduction. State your name and keep it brief.

DON'T
Intercept a WFMU DJ or Talkshow Host on the way to the bathroom. At the Loop Lounge during a Glen Jones show a guy recognized my voice, stepped in front of me and began spinning an elaborate story about a call he made YEARS ago to Aerial View. I'm standing there with my eyeballs floating and he's nattering away. I finally said, "I really gotta pee..." and he stepped aside.

DO
Follow the WFMUer into the bathroom and continue your yarn while he or she is peeing. We don't mind, really.

DON'T
Tell your new WFMU friend: "You don't look ANYTHING like I thought you would." Most WFMU DJs (and some Talkshow Hosts) - because of breeding or dissolute lifestyles - don't look at all like you expect they will. This remark, no matter how tenderly offered, usually is heard as, "You're much uglier/fatter/balder/older than I imagined." Remember, if you want friends, be friendly.

DO
Compliment your new WFMU friend by saying something like, "You do a wonderful show. It's the high point of my week." Lie if you must.

DON'T
Get into specifics: "Do you remember that record you played back in March when I called you in the studio and said it sounded exactly like this lullaby my sister's aunt used to sing to me at the beach - the same aunt who made the tomato and mozzarella sandwiches, the ones she'd drizzle with olive oil, on that Italian bread, the bread she got on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx  - and you told me the name of that song and I said I'd write it down but I totally forgot to write it down and I also forgot the name of the song. DO YOU REMEMBER THAT SONG?!"

DO
Keep the entire interaction brief. WFMUers are busy people with lots of responsibilities and serious drinking to do.

DON'T
Request a song (or, in the case of a talkshowhost, topic). No WFMUer carries a notepad everywhere. Get your own damn show and play/discuss whatever you want.

DO
Offer to have sex with the WFMUer, even if your mental image of the DJ (or Talkshow Host) and actual reality violently collide. The WFMUer may not be able to take you up on it but we all appreciate the overture.

DJs (and Talkshow Hosts):

DO
Remember those four little words that can ease any social awkwardness when meeting your public: "I really gotta pee."

Pulaski Speedway

New Jersey – like most places in the world – can lay claim to at least one Eighth Wonder of the World. If you’ve seen The Sopranos, you’ve seen our Eighth Wonder: the Pulaski Skyway. A succession of interconnected bridges and roadway soaring high over the Hackensack River and Passaic Rivers and the town of Kearny, the Skyway (as locals call it) is, technically a “viaduct”, carrying Routes 1 & 9 one and a third miles from Jersey City to Newark.

Originally called “The Diagonal Highway”, it was built at a cost of twenty million dollars, fifteen construction casualties and one “labor-related” murder to connect the easternmost portion of the transcontinental Lincoln Highway to the Holland Tunnel. When it opened in 1932, the Skyway got raves from the American Institute of Steel Construction, which singled it out as "Most Beautiful Steel Structure" among long-span bridges. Upon dedication, it was re-named in honor of the “Father of the American Cavalry”: Revolutionary War hero General Casimir Pulaski,  killed while galloping heroically into battle.

“Galloping heroically into battle” pretty much sums up how one approaches the Skyway – as locals call it. With no shoulder to harbor police, drivers feel emboldened to go AS FAST AS THEY POSSIBLY CAN. Despite the posted 45 mile per hour speed limit, most times I'm doing twice that just to keep up with traffic. It's INSANE! And in the sixteen or so years I’ve been using the Skyway I’ve NEVER seen someone pulled over for speeding.

Which gave me an entrepreneurial idea: if the two-lane Skyway is going to be used like a speedway, why not make it official? Create a starting line, install a “Christmas tree” staging light (they count down red, yellow, green), mark off a quarter-mile and put in some automated cameras at the finish line. The new Pulaski Speedway could host thousands of races a day.

Imagine your mother’s “pavement-pounding ’96 Honda Civic!" up against those three guys in the "ground-shaking Dodge Palacios Carpets delivery van!”. Or your “insane ’97 Jeep Wrangler taking on Big Al in his "gas-guzzling 1985 Pontiac Parisienne!” And the best part is the merchandising: I envision a whole line of Pulaski Speedway tchotckes, apparel, drinking glasses, etc., all taking advantage of its impressive silhouette and subtle Sopranos connection. Sure, whoever gets to the finish line first gets a ticket in the mail… BUT they also get the satisfaction of knowing they beat the other guy AND a commemorative Pulaski Speedway T-shirt. The other guy just gets a ticket in the mail.

Desperate Housewives

There I was Sunday night, working on my computer with the TV on in the background, and didn't feel like watching the same Sopranos re-run for the third time so I tuned in Desperate Housewives instead. Holy shit. It's just as vapid as I thought it would be. Chock full of stereotypes, it plays like one of those Spanish telenovellas, there's even a hot Spanish lady with a stupid rich husband - she bangs her hunky hot gardener behind his back.

Then there's the frigid Stepford Wife Bitch Widow and the Bleach Blonde Divorcee Slut and the Really Smart Former Career Woman Trapped In Stultifying Housewife Mode. In one way or another they're all subordinate to the men in their lives, scheming and plotting and conniving, setting fires in neighbor's houses  - and all of it accompanied by voice-over narration by a dead lady. The only good thing I can say about the show is that I tuned in 14 minutes late and didn't have to see the whole episode.

Here's a line of sample dialogue: "And then, suddenly there he was - rising like a phoenix from the ashes."

THIS is the No. 1 TV show in the country? Somebody 'splain please...