WFMU's Beware of the Blog

Rabbit Silly

Beware the countdown to Global Digital Domination!  I wanted to have my shit together a little bit ahead of the 17 million Americans like me who are either cable service refusniks or in the lower socio-economic quarter who utilize Old School Rabbit Ears to catch the news, Gossip Girl, Access Hollywood, PBS, Fox, Montel and our "stories".
I planned it pretty well, ordering my government discount coupon two months ago, finally recieving it last week. It looked more like a debit card, pretty sophisticated I guess. I'm also guessing the government can now confirm that I'm a cheap asshole. I sat through an online tutorial that explained how easy this was going to be once I purchased and installed my converter box. How I'd suddenly get a bunch of channels I didn't even know I could get. They also mentioned the converter boxes were between $40-$70. In my naivete I figured since my coupon was worth forty bucks that I could ostensibly find a free deal. The truth was, the government's caveat was that I was only allowed to shop three vendors with the coupon and their cheapest boxes were $60 plus tax on the whole amount. So twenty-five dollars later I had my unit. Once I got home, I found out that this sleek little box had nearly a half dozen outputs that needed to be connected to my T.V. which, thank you very much, where almost all being utilized for things like my dvd and vhs players. I'd also suddenly discovered that I must've become catatonic at a key point during the online tutorial because -- no friggin' way -- I STILL NEEDED RABBIT EARS! Once I got everything up and sort-of running, I'm still fucking around with antennae trying to re-animate Katie Couric and get the cubes out her mouth during the CBS Evening News. Forget NBC - The Office and all that crap. I now no longer have that station or their local affiliates despite the appearance of The Magik Box and having my hands Reynolds Wrapped. I expect the typical "you shouldn't be watching that brain rot" and "go read a book" comments dear readers, and evidently I'm not really having my civil rights violated because it pretty much works, but I do feel just a little less fabulous about the transition than I thought I would.

White Mic Fever!

Diasporic Stradivarius

For my money, there's no better validation of life's futility, beauty, desperation, grief and surreality as the analogy of a lost violin.
We hear about these stories in seemingly increasing numbers over the years. Just how many rare 17th century violins can there be and exactly how are they managing to flee from their owners? Like sweaty defectors at the airport these sensuous instruments are obviously yearning for something better, hoping to rewrite their centuries-old history and escape the enslavement of their destiny. Perhaps there exists a Shangri-La, a Violin Isle-a-Land where piles of violins bake off their oppressive veneers in a tropical paradise.

As I ponder this possibly preposturous premise, let me direct you to a spooky Strad story  by J.Meade Falkner.

My Secret Garden (the weird alienated one)

I sometimes hear guys talking about how mystified they are by choices women make when it comes to a hetero partner. Frankly, even as a broad, I can offer little insight into what goes on in the minds of women myself. I just know that girls start a hell of alot earlier than you may have been led to believe when it comes to creating a sexual inner life. Add to that mix the fact that most boys find girls icky until they are almost thirteen and you've got yourself the first giant chasm in the gender gap.
As early as the age of four back in the late sixties/early seventies my preoccupation with and crushes on celebrities were a mental tsunami drowning the village of my own potential. Worse was the fact that my crushes were on personalities so incredibly unsexy to other young girls who dreamt about the classic version of Prince Charming that I could not even share during girltalk, leaving me left out of that whole female bonding thing. The endurance of each of my manias made Wuthering Heights look like a Peanuts cartoon. Meanwhile other girls flipped their crushes as quickly as they thumbed through the latest Tiger Beat. Similarly when other little girls collected 45s, I sat transfixed with my LPs stacked on the return arm of the stereo.                                                                                                            
For the sake of some (any) logic, I've lumped my pre-teen loves into three different categories. Mind you, some of the celebrities are literally shoe-horned into these groups but I'm trying make things easier for you people. Anyhoo, there are "The Nice Jewish Boys", "The Pan-Sexuals" and "The Feel Funnys".
In the first category, I give you Barry Gordon From A Thousand Clowns, one of the more influential films for me as a kid. I guess I related to Barry's geekiness. He plays Larry David's Rabbi now on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Then there's Wes Stern. You might remember him from Getting Together with that douchey Bobby Sherman, and also The Mary Tyler Moore Show, where he played Lou Grant's nephew who wanted to lose his virginity to Mary. Later I think he grew up, changed character and did it with Brenda Morgenstern on Rhoda. Scott Jacoby was the Nice Jewish Boy who played Bad Ronald, one of the greatest '70s TV-movies ever. There's quite a bit of Scott up on youtube and I still think he was pretty hot back then.
Inevitably, we come to Gene Wilder in this first group. When I finally did get a friend by the sixth grade, she and I fought over who was going to marry him first. I really resented her for this. Can I just say a million dorky girls like me were really really happy when he married Gilda Radner because we actually could relate to her just a little bit more than say, Farrah Fawcett-Majors? 

Jobless and Gaga

I'm jobless again. After two tumultuous years of working like a dog with canine compulsive disorder, the powers that be finally put me out of my misery. When the news came down friday, I stared bewildered into the teary eyes of the two that get paid to bring the pain. Only I had no lump in my throat, no waves of emotion. I was complimented that I was acting incredibly professionally at such a horrible moment.  One friend, laughing at this story said "Hadn't they figured out how incredibly cold you are?" Actually, any one of my colleagues would tell you that I was incredibly hardworking and managed the worst of the worst of our clients with aplomb.

I had often remarked that this was the first job, after a lifetime of work (literally stretching back into childhood) where I truly enoyed the company of my co-workers. Prior to this gig, I had worked for 16 years for the most American of corporations, opting to take a severance out. Surrounded by my weeping Union brothers and sisters, I remember checking the clock dispassionately waiting for an opportune moment to walk out the side door without fanfare. For the next eight months I enjoyed, for the first time in years an incredibly happy, healthy and creative time. I just didn't have a job to go to.

I am by no means a lazy person. I live alone in NJ suburbia and wake up on any Saturday morning around 8AM. That's after waking up at 6AM and remembering it's the weekend. I don't have to get up to milk cows or feed babies, I simply put in my 40-50 hours a week. I manage a home with the usual bills, mortgage, and taxes and have even scraped up enough to have some savings in an IRA. I probably have a little more than most of my friends, who have their own struggles.   

Three from Old Школа (School) Russia

1972 Belorussian Folk-Psych under what appears to be extreme pressure:

Static traffic cam on a major intersection in St. Petersburg:

"His Wife Is A Chicken:"

Cows and Beer, Best Before:

This photo recently came to the attention of myself and partner-in-crime DJ Diane Kamikaze via Dan Kubinski from Milwaukee's finest hardcore group ever, Die Kreuzen. It's a crowd shot from the stage at CBGB, taken by Dan just before he told us of Cliff Burton's death after this show, September 27th, 1986. Take a look a this motley bunch of glumsters and doofuses. That's me and Diane up front to the right anticipating the time of our lives, like every time we went to see Die Kreuzen. It's odd to calculate that this was 22 years ago and to imagine what everyone else in this picture is up to now. Steve Albini encapsulated that very year, himself and this band in this article from Forced Exposure. Here's a couple of musical clips courtesy of Mike Lupica's show to enjoy as you read here and here.                                                                                    

Captain Kleenex and The Green Sputum Cowboy

Granted, I'm no health care professional, nor do I even resemble one of those gratingly cutesy actresses that pass for one on television, but I'm calling the last 30 or so days as I see it: a pandemic! More to the point: a feverish puke, sweat and shit filled phlegm fest. I gratefully managed to avoid the norovirus which struck about 70% of the people I know who either live or work in New York City. Victims were vomiting curbside while hailing a taxicab only to shit their pants on the way home due to the total absence of free public restrooms in the greatest city on earth. Meanwhile in the outer 'burbs, strange sweaty outbreaks were randomly occurring in the population accompanied by dizziness, a slight cough and general fatigue. The symptoms would seem to dissapear, in reality only going into remission gathering steam for the big kahuna -- an ass-over-teakettle upper respiratory smackdown with complementary bronchitis and a suffocation of the sinus cavities making one ponder the possibility of having been quiescently teabagged by an epileptic bricklayer. After see-sawing in and out of illness for three weeks, I was finally prescribed Levaquin and promethazine with dextromethorphan syrup. Then I really got sick. Unbeknownst to this humble host organism, a detrimental colonization was ON...

The Seize-ing Sounds of Sean Paul

This story is making today's headlines about a woman who had brain surgery because "her favorite artist" almost made her swallow her tongue. I don't know where to start -- is this a condemnation of the monotone white boy from Kingston or is Sean Paul's publicist trying to make a nice salmon mousse mold out of grey matter?

Honestly, how can you even claim to enjoy music fully without the occasional symptoms like: grand or petit mal, incontinence, anxiety attack, priapism, low frequency nausea, chest pains, boogie fever, cold sweat, and the like? Tell us your symptoms!

Alan Vega Comes Home to WFMU's Free Music Series

Alan Vega is generally recognized as one half of the legendary Suicide, a duo that for over 30 years has sent rock critics into half-retarded metaphoric tizzies, even compelling yours truly to break into drooling LeeLee Sobieski beat raps in previous attempts to describe their paralyzed, sci-fi paranoid sonic backdrafts. Consistently keeping busy with his art and solo recordings, soundtrack works and collaborations with artists as diverse as Liam Gallagher, Pan Sonic and Alex Chilton. Mr. Vega always manages to jog decades ahead of the cyclical waves of electroclashers and teknoid kids.

WFMU is appropriately honored and flabbergasted that Alan Vega will be performing at our Free Music Series Saturday evening, October 13th at Southpaw, in his hometown of Brooklyn, NY. Truth be told, he has granted us his time previously, with Suicide partner Marty Rev in an interview I conducted back in 2002 (RealAudio archive-the gab starts at :52 mins). Mr. Vega is the true embodiment of New York City past and present, from 50's street-corner doo-wop to '70's gritty punk to post-9/11 disconnect. If you're in the area, make it a point to stop by for what will surely be an amazing evening!

WFMU, Casserole of Love

A lot of us, when prompted with the right combination of meditative thought, Jack Daniels, and bitter, bitter regret can conjure up powerful recollections of the past. Memories and associations could have dominated or even crippled our development, or just gently guided us to wherever and whoever we happen to be. There's sense memory; sights, smells, and sounds from our childhood that we have carried forward into adulthood and propel our best and worse impulses. Adolescent awareness further shapes our personalities. We struggle to understand disappointment, loyalty, competition, cruelty, love, and community. Aging and life experience hones our senses and tastes and allows us to understand and appreciate history, family, and our fallibility.

Such is the giant steaming casserole of memory and humanity that I've squashed my foot into almost every week for the last 16 years at WFMU.

Surveying the beans, cheese, and French's® French Fried Onions oozing between my toes, I've only grown more appreciative of what the fellowship of listeners, volunteers, and staff have brought to the picnic table with yellowed oven mitts.

Yeah, I said it: We all bring the casserole, then we jump in it.

Admittedly, I'm not the nostalgic type. Most of my primal associations have deep roots in shall we say "too much alone time".

I don't like reminiscing much no matter how much fun I'm told I had. I'll bring up the past now and again when I'm in a bad mood or in trying to serve some dumb point in an argument. I hardly embellish when speaking of what had come before and generally forget the best parts of an old story. My radio show is propelled by audio sense memory, my worst impulses, disloyalty, and those adolescent struggles I've dragged into my aging tastes.

I like concepts and ideas, great, crazy, or even grandiose and WFMU is nothing if not full of them.

Two Tickets to Paradox? Nah.

The inimitable Eddie Money belting out the national anthem during the Game 2 of the Eastern Conference Finals.

Actor Gary Cole in an episode of The Outer Limits.

Life Is A Cabaret, Ol' Chung...

News personality and Jersey Shore resident Connie "Con" Chung's campy turn, or should I say tumble, as a lounge singer bidding adieu to her and husband Maury "Po" Povich's cancelled MSNBC program this past weekend created a sensation. A burning, prickling sensation. Re-live what has already become "audio gold" (on video) here.

DIY kind of gal

Our Bodies, Ourselves My Ass. Now you can clone your vagina for posterity. This of course can create pesky post-consumer waste, so you may want to help save the planet by fashioning your own menstrual supplies. This practice apparently solves the issue of proximity to toxic chemicals contained in disposable feminine products.

Call me a consumerist pig but I'll just bet all the crap in the New Jersey soil will get me sick faster than a bloody tampon. That's why I'm thinking of building my own hovercraft!

From the Fellas to You, Ladies!

The Swiss Tourist Board would like to offer Ladies worldwide a relaxing alternative to 2006 World Cup madness: "Women wanting to flee the football euphoria will find plenty of attractive offers right here" (wmv). This kind hint sent courtesy of my Russian soccer-enthusiast boyfriend.

Meanwhile, I got this manly e-card from my friend Dave, an american banking executive who has created a few household spills of his own. Whatever that means. Ew.

Guilty As Charged: Distracted Grammys Report

Last night I had some plumbing done in my home which only slightly distracted me from the big awards show. This is what I can remember:

Madonna fell off her high horse awhile ago, but tonight is getting right the hell back up again with a dazzling opening number featuring Gorillaz. She has recently credited Pilates with giving her those curves she's sporting. Whatever, she could more easily have pounded down some bacon cheeseburgers and gotten the same result.  I get a kick out of seeing a movie star as much as the next guy. I would also prefer them to watch the Grammys from the sanctity of their nine million dollar homes, giving their seats up to L.A.'s homeless population. Keith Urban sitting next to a vagrant just seems to make a lot more sense.

Kelly Clarkson is the girl you ignored in High School and she just mopped the floor with Paul McCartney. Kelly's gonna celebrate with some bacon cheeseburgers with the homeless later while WFMU DJ Joe Belock and I have a shouting match.  Beyonce Knowles' expression speaks volumes...volumes of the Harvard Classics my cat has yet to read.  Kanye West. Brash, genius, Grammy Winner. Where the hell is R. Kelly to put some humility back into the show? Paul McCartney takes the stage, Chaos and Creation in the Backyard. Not a reference to booty, this is a legend, A Beatle. Ahhhh, LOOK OUT Helter Skelter! Yes, it's fucking cool but I can't help but wish Yoko Ono were there to make it more...EVIL. Or maybe instead of those projected images of a rollercoaster ride, they could use some Tate-LaBianca trial footage.

Jesus Christ Moviestar

It seems only appropriate to hit the video store today and rent a couple of movies depicting the life of Jesus, but I know - you're stumped! There's alot of movies out there about J.C., "where do I begin?" you may well ask. Christ, I dunno. I'm a lapsed Jew-nitarian. My faves have more to do with who looks the hottest portraying The Man. Ted Neely screeching through 'Superstar, Robert Powell's bedroom-eyed Saviour in Jesus of Nazareth, Sin-Ewey Willem Dafoe In Last Temptation, Jeff Hunter (oops)...

Here's a couple of ramblings and resources to help you sort it all out: Celluloid Jesus The Christ Film Webpages, Celluloid Savior, Jesus On Film, and What Would Jesus Watch? Finally, here's a few of my fave actors who've donned the thorny crown (or clowny makeup in the case of Godspell):

                                                                                                

     

Guilty As Charged: Pop'd to Def

This is the first in what will hopefully be a short-lived series of sub/admissions to WFMU's Beware of the Blog that I have named Guilty As Charged. In these posts I wish to exorcise for hopefully more than myself some curious obsessions that stall, stop short or otherwise trip me up in the mainstream of popular culture, current and dated. Alright, there's a shorter term for it: Brain Farts. I find that seemingly unrelated thoughts snowball in my mind, gathering hysterical momentum over a few days, ultimately culminating in a delusional and erroneously-perceived synchronous event.

The latest whirlwind started when I heard a cover of  Extreme's "More Than Words" by Latino R&B musician Frankie J. Which led to thoughts of Nuno Bettencourt. Who is the one-half hairball of that burned-to-memory MTV video (depicted on the left) that in the blush of the nineteen nineties brought America To Tears, for various reasons. A shudder ensues when I recall what was either the rumour or execution of placing other half-hairball Gary Cherone into the role of lead singer for Van Halen. But back to Nuno. He happens to be a hot accomplished musician, who has never had a problem getting accolades from in-the-know hard rock guitarists, guys who seem a million miles removed from the vanguard of music. I am lead, like that plastic thing atop a ouija board, to Paul Gilbert. The guitarist for Mr. Big, who had a fun song called "To Be With You" around the same era. Mr. Gilbert, according to my research is a huge star in all the Asian territories. No doubt why. Mrroww.

Now that we have our cozy retro jammies on, I feel compelled to pass on the info that same-era kings of the Shredd-Ballad Def Leppard are set to release a covers album called YEAH! . It's contents are being leaked out and then squashed on the web lately, so I guess that means it's causing a bit of a stir. Some of the numbers re-visited include songs by Jobriath, Blondie, The Sweet, Roxy Music, ELO, Kongos, Badfinger and The Kinks. You can listen to a clip of DL's quite nice rendition of Waterloo Sunset here. No Foolin' - talk about Pour Some Sugar On Me....

Brandon's WFMU Diaries

I'm always fascinated by stories of how WFMU's listeners came to be so. It's like wistfully recalling losing one's virginity which, from what I understand, has happened to some of our audience already. The rest believe sex is overrated compared to the euphoric heights achieved hearing Kenny G singing Wittgenstein, or Mark Allen's Commercial Interruption episode.

New listener Brandon, a librarian from Atlanta e-mailed Station Manager Ken with a link to a site detailing his week of ravaging by the brusque and musky-smelling wfmu.org. (Hey, I just think it reads a little like the Story of O or something) He writes:

I haven't proofread lately for any embarassing comments I might have made in there, since this was just intended as a private email series... but now that it's on the web anyway, I thought some of you might be interested to read it. Loved what I heard that week, and I've become a regular listener. 
Just sent another donation, since you'd said in the "state of the station" program that
this is a slow time of the year for cash flow.  Thanks for helping maintain such a high quality station.

Thanks, Brandon!

They Called Her Mrs. Bowie

Don't worry, fabulous space-kittens, this isn't an R.I.P. post. Angie Bowie is alive and well, hanging out with pals like Xaviera Hollander and Mick Karn, and writing pocket books about bisexuality.

In fact, here's a cool interview with the lady with some great pictures. Better yet, you MUST see Angie in a leotard thong, with giant press-on nails and a *ahem* handsome escort in these incredible videos!

What's Behind The Mask?

In the spirit of the Halloween season, let us not forget that peculiar entity that seems to cross all cultures: The Masked Musician!

Most of the popular references include The Residents, Kiss, Buckethead, Slipknot, Mudvayne, Insane Clown Posse and the recently signed Mushroomhead. But there have been a string of artists working in disguise that are just off the radar, including -

Nash The Slash, he of prog group FM and many solo projects, Cast In Bronze, the mysterious Carillon player, Orion, the cabalistic Elvis impersonator, Nigeria's outrageous Lagbaja, and Afrobeat Ensemble's Kaleta, to name a few. Click Here to be serenaded! (wmv)

                                                                             

Festive Fall Decor

You can make macabre dried-apple heads using knives, bowls and ingredients found in nature.                      

         

Decorative shrunken heads can easily be fashioned using knives, pots and ingredients found in nature.

Not Quite Quiet Time

Maybe we FMU folk just don't want to be alone in our own heads. We constantly placate ourselves with sounds.  Soothing and dreamy, digitally produced hums and blips, orchestrated and melodic, indigenous chanting, or as is often in my case mostly cacophonous, repetitive and sense-crippling . Whichever our pleasure, constant sound appeases us like a back rub after a breast feeding (including the regurge on the shoulder part).

So it came as a bit of a shock to discover via a couple of hours of slack research that there are those who might enjoy a some quiet time. Like the freaks at Noise Pollution Clearinghouse, or their weirdo crunchy S.F. brethren Sound Pollution dot org who would accuse members of our little community of being "Sound Abusers" with the following modus operandi:

The Psychological profile of a sound abuser:
From our studies, people that use noise in situations that are not qualified as an emergency, expose these forms of behavior:

1. Lack of awareness
2. Lack of responsibility
3. Intentionality
4.Selfishness
5. Lack of respect for others
6. Lack of respect for one self
7. Defiance, abusive behavior

Hey, what about number 8: Animal Masturbator? I can't understand people who feel the compulsion to make lists anyhow. Speaking of which, schizophrenics manufacture their own internal racket, as dramatized in this compelling audio slide show provided by your mental health care pals at National Public Radio. Sounds pretty hellish, huh? Almost like drilling a hole nine miles down into the Earth's crust to hear the Cries of The Damned.

Saturn, Your Other Home for Hippy Noise

Saturn Electrostatic Discharges is neither an STD nor the name of one of WFMU's 2-6 a.m. overnight radio programs. It is, from what I have crudely gathered a bunch of radio racket that occurs when lightning is in Saturn's atmosphere. Then there's those hot gases which seem to really stir shit up, allowing scientists from the Cassini-Huygens Mission to Saturn to study just what the hell those 3 rings (conveniently called A, B and C) are doing there. Fascinating as that may be, we just like the creepy noise. Here's a source for your space audio fix, and here's a recent recording (mp3) from our most blingingest neighbor in the solar system.

From Wheels of Steel to Bars of Steel

Hi, radio fans, my name is Deb and I'm a Disc Jockey by trade. Maybe you've heard my radio show? I'm serving time in the Pen for stealing some blue eyeshadow from my local K-Mart. It sure can get lonely in lockup so I'd love to have a penpal. Write me, and I'll reveal my most recent playlist, and maybe we can trade Top Tens.

The recent jailing of WXRK's Crazy Cabbie had me wondering just what it is that attracts air personalities to trouble with the law. I found out that I'm probably in the minority of DJs because I haven't been caught doing anything that'd land me in front of a judge. From Tokyo Rose to pirate radio pioneers, more on-air voices have been caught up in legal scuffles than anyone can keep track of. Some recent cases include mic-hog Bubba The Love Sponge's tearful clearance of charges, and El Cucuy de la Manana, (translated: "The Boogeyman in the Morning"), arguably the most popular Spanish-speaking jock who's twice been in court for promoting the services of dangerously insane faith healers on his show. Some of these guys' troubles have to do with perceived invincibility and abuse of position. Like Kaiboni, a popular Zimbabwe DJ, or Stoney Berly Gibbs, an American club DJ in Germany. I think we radio folk should keep our noses clean and stick to trying to land our listeners in jail like Opie and Anthony or Goumba Johnny do.