WFMU's Beware of the Blog

MUSIC AND THE COSMOS: PC WORSHIP AND THE SAGA OF SOLAR VIOLENCE

Forget what you have heard about chill wave, kill wave, no wave, new wave— this week’s theme is SOLAR DEATH WAVE. On Tuesday, there was a coronal mass ejection from a sunspot the size of earth aimed directly towards our fragile spinning planet, causing a “solar tsunami” to race 93 million miles across space. Lucky for us our protective magnetic shield displaced the explosion and transformed it into the most awe-inspiring aurora borealis of the century, but more “solar violence” is predicted to occur as the week goes on. Scientists say there is a slight chance that a potentially major solar eruption capable of destroying satellites and wrecking power and communications grids around the globe could occur TODAY, AUGUST 5th 2010.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, whether this proves to be true (in which case you probably wouldn’t be reading this right now) or not, PC WORSHIP is here to provide the score to cosmic battle zone. Allow them to imagine the most insane possible hypothetical situation.

Drop the needle. Side A. Live Reduxion, PC Worship’s latest 7” EP (co-released earlier this year on Shdwply + World War Records) begins this scenario on a deceptively sunny note; hazy beams of warm fuzz radiate across a beachy dance floor of multiple guitar riffs gliding together to a timeless surf-rock beat, sparkling with confidence, trembling with vulnerability, swooning at each other, bumping into each other, exchanging awkward exchanges through palm fronds, laughing at the present through the tears of the past, and overall creating an Eden of nostalgia where love can be created and resurrected anew again.

Then all of a sudden a foot-full of sand gets kicked in your eyes. The guitars screech to a halt, their playful choreography frozen by skull-pounding drums warning of impending doom. The sun that has felt so nice and warm on your skin seems to grow exceedingly hotter and brighter until gradually the godhead above is enveloped in a hairnet of fire and the air grows dense and thick with celestial hell. Suddenly, a cloak of blackness drops over the surface of the globe. In a single flash, the past 150 years of modern discoveries in the fields of electricity, internet, and telecommunications is rendered obsolete. The guitars soon lose all sense of time and poise and begin hailing their own mortality in a squealing celebration of the chaos about to ensue as Justin Frye’s monotone voice chants “wake up in the dark and there’s nothing going on”.

Switch to side B. “Salvic Garden, Prophecies of Hell” returns us to this paradisaical Eden that opened the EP only now we find it in a state of infernal decay, inhabited by mutant guitars dragged across the beach by monster trucks with bleary-eyed recollections of James Byrd. “Gravity” pulls us inward toward the center of the record and deeper into its post-apocalyptic--Island of Dr. Moreau—style visions of madness. Frye chants “they were all dead, they were all dead” in a dramatic last gasp at a lo-fi pop song that dips back and forth into the sinking tidal pool of noise and structural amnesia held together by fist-pumping power chords that offer a thread of hope before trailing off into a shredding oblivion. Thus, PC WORSHIP, a self-proclaimed “mutant soul band” is born to venerate the drugged-out memory of PCs and other myriad artifacts of the long lost era of electronic communication before they were wiped out by the solar wars of 2010 A.D. Their resulting sonic temple is truly worthy of devotion.

Rogue Taxidermy and the End of History

 Here’s what I’m excited about today: End of History Ale! Okay, it’s English ale, and I believe it’s 110 proof (!) and it comes in dead-animal bottles, and there’s only 12 bottles made (seven stoats, four squirrels, and a hare) and it costs $762/ bottle, so probably I shall never have one. But I am no Janey-come-lately to the world of rogue taxidermy—far from it! As a child I became enamored of the jackalope, beast of lore and legend and Wyoming roadside attraction rest stops, and I began collecting jackalope postcards at a very early age.

By the time I finished college and moved to New York, I’d amassed a nice little collection of several dozen jackalope cards from various states. Then some guy I was dating had a birthday and I didn’t have  enough money to buy him a present and I wanted to give him something really, really nice. So I gave him my entire jackalope postcard collection.  He totally hated them, and then we broke up, and he never even gave them back. BUT: Here is the happy ending! When I told Sluggo that story, he got me my very own jackalope— a REAL one! Look! Here’s the picture!

Now I have a small collection of actual rogue taxidermy: my baby-alligator-and-some-kind-of-shell candy dish; my handbag-made-from-an-actual-armidillo (with garnet   eyes!); the fish that I can’t even begin to explain ... In fact, the armidillo handbag won second place at the first annual Carnivorous Nights taxidermy contest, hosted by Union Hall’s Secret Science Club and curated by WFMU’s own Dorian Devins, plus authors Margaret Mittelbach and Michael Crewdson. (Buy their book!)

Back when I did a show called Truckstop Teaparty on WFMU, I once did a weekly special feature with all the instructions of how to stuff an owl to give to your mom for Mother’s Day. And in 2001, I interviewed a 14-year-old homeschooled taxidermist named Amy Ritchie on the first incarnation of the Thunk Tank program, and you can hear the archive from this page.  And don’t forget the Minnesota Association of Rogue Taxidermists, ’cause, you know, I never do.

 I’m just trying to explain why I think drinking high-octane ale out of a stoat is an appealing idea. And what is a stoat, anyway? I believe it’s British for “ermine.”

But knowing our fine American tradition of rogue taxidermy, I couldn’t believe we don’t have dead-animal bottles of our own. So I went looking, but found something even more useful, which is, of course, the deer-anus bottle opener which you are gonna need when you want to pop the top on that stoat. 

Thanks, Taxidermy Tube and good ol’ American ingenuity!

Sing Along with God

 Scientists and Experts have been doing some serious thinking at the Large Hadron Collider (aka That Thing That's Going to Create the Black Hole into Which We Will All be Sucked). First they thought about the Higgs bosun particle (aka the "God Particle," and that's what the physicists themselves call it, I am not making that up). Higgs bosun is a theoretical sub-atomic particle that physicists think may be the one thing that gives all other particles their mass. After they thought up Higgs bosun, the Scientists and Experts brought in Dr. Lily Asquith, who is a particle physicist specializing in sonification, the conversion of scientific data into sound. Dr. Asquith thought about what kinds of energy might be emitted if a Higgs bosun particle (which might exist!) were to be created during collisions at the Large Hadron Collider (and if creating it did not cause the Earth to be sucked into itself), and then she made the so-far-theoretical data into sounds: The Music of the Spheres! 

What does the God Particle sound like? You can listen to it here, in an article from BBC News, but mostly it sounds like the parts of Fabio's shows where I walk away and do something else for a while. Yet many ancient religions incorporate specific holy sounds and tones, and one of the software engineers who is working with Dr. Asquith says that the Scientists and Experts who have listened to the song of the Higgs bosun have had "something akin to a religious experience." Indeed, whenever I think of what they're doing at the Large Hadron Collider, I say a little prayer.

I Knew It!

 Now that I work at the Think Tank, I read a lot of stuff written by Scientists and Experts, like this one study that was just published in the journal Nature Neuroscience, called “Dopamine D2 receptors in addiction-like reward dysfunction and compulsive eating in obese rats,” by Paul M. Johnson & Paul J. Kenny of The Scripps Research Institute.

So what the Doctors found was that rats that ate delicious, yummy BACON had the same addiction-like chemical responses in their brains as rats that do a lot of smack. And because it’s an animal study, the rats were subjected to excruciating pain, and they still ate BACON, just like they kept doing heroin when they were subjected to excruciating pain,   because they were ADDICTED. To heroin. And now also to BACON. And if rats can be addicted to BACON, why not humans, who also—some of them—do heroin, right? 

Some day the hog farmers of Iowa are gonna wise up, and when the BACON cartels control the bacon, then what are you gonna do? Eat so-called “turkey bacon”? I don’t think so.

 Thanks for reading my blog post this time, and may God bless.

Non-Marathon Money Maker #2

So plans are under way for WFMU’s annual two-week Marathon fundraiser, and people are already laying odds on which DJ’s show Kelly will be co-hosting when she first says “chocolate whizzway” or “man-hungry poon trap” or some other completely inappropriate Kellyism on the air.  (Plus, “laying odds.”) The Marathon is a non-stop party, with all the Listener Volunteers and random DJ Co-hosts showing up at the station, and communal food and completely legal beverages, and crazy money-raising stunts. It’s a lot of fun, and we love sharing it with the Listeners, and we love it when the Listeners come through and support our totally Listener-supported radio station for another year. Except, you know, last year the economy was really, really bad, and for the first time ever we didn’t quite make our extremely modest fund-raising goal. So I have been thinking about other ways we can make money, and here is another one: 21^st-Century Energy Resources!

This is a really exciting and totally Green thing we can do. Scientists and Experts—and Hippies—are all aflutter over the awesome new urine-based hydrogen fuel cell. Here is some sciencey info about it: “Because urea's four hydrogen atoms are less tightly bound to nitrogen than the hydrogen bound to oxygen in water molecules, it takes less energy to break them apart: just 0.37 volts applied across the cell, against the 1.23 volts required to break down water. Thus the energy balance of urea-derived hydrogen could be considerably better from start to finish than projections for other methods of obtaining the combustible gas.” And, also, you can get methane gas from feces, and that is a source of energy, too! All we need is to get some DJs who can pee and poo on command, like Roger Ebert’s dominatrix, and we will be sitting on a literal pot full of gold! And there’ll be the added benefit of finally ending the problems with the second-floor toilet just outside Studio A! And Kelly can say “chocolate whizzway” whenever she wants to! It’s a wee-wee-wee, win-win-win, all the way to the bank. Although there are people who drink their own urine—I used to work with one, at the Village Voice—but I don't think anyone at WFMU would be that selfish, I think it'll be one more way we can all contribute.

Thanks for reading my blogpost this time, and thanks for supporting WFMU. And thanks to Listener See Wolf for the fine photo of Marathon 2008, above. 

Celebrity Anti-Drug PSA's, Part Four

Under the pretext of drug control suppressive police states have been set up throughout the Western world. The precise programming of thought feeling and apparent sensory impressions by the technology outlined in bulletin 2332 enables the police states to maintain a democratic facade from behind which they loudly denounce as criminals, perverts and drug addicts anyone who opposes the control machine. Underground armies operate in the large cities enturbulating the police with false information through anonymous phone calls and letters. Police with drawn guns irrupt at the Senator's dinner party a very special dinner party too that would tie up a sweet young thing surplus planes.

"We been tipped off a nude reefer party is going on here. Take the place apart boys and you folks keep your clothes on or I'll blow your filthy guts out."

We put out false alarms on the police short wave directing patrol cars to nonexistent crimes and riots which enables us to strike somewhere else. Squads of false police search and beat the citizenry. False construction workers tear up streets, rupture water mains, cut power connections. Infra-sound installations set off every burglar alarm in the city. Our aim is total chaos.

Loft room map of the city on the wall. Fifty boys with portable tape recorders record riots from TV. They are dressed in identical grey flannel suits. They strap on the recorders under gabardine topcoats and dust their clothes lightly with tear gas. They hit the rush hour in a flying wedge riot recordings on full blast police whistles, screams, breaking glass crunch of nightsticks tear gas flapping from their clothes. They scatter put on press cards and come back to cover the action. Bearded Yippies rush down a street with hammers breaking every window on both sides leave a wake of screaming burglar alarms strip off the beards, reverse collars and they are fifty clean priests throwing petrol bombs under every car WHOOSH a block goes up behind them. Some in fireman uniforms arrive with axes and hoses to finish the good work.

William S. Burroughs / The Wild Boys

News of the Dead: This Just In—Soldiers Die in U.S. Civil War

Deaths come in pairs, and sometimes it seems that News of the Dead does, too. In the past week there have been two stories about the remains of Civil War soldiers in this area.

First there was the ceremonial burial of the remains of a New York soldier who died at Antietam (Sept. 17, 1862—the bloodiest day of the war, with over 23,000 killed). A tourist at the battlefield found some bone fragments, uniform buttons, a belt buckle, and scraps of fabric about a year ago; the buttons identified the remains as being that of a soldier from one of the 24 New York regiments that fought that day. Government Scientists and Experts had a go and decided the soldier was between 17 and 19 years old when he died. That was about as much as they could figure out, so the bits and bones were put into a box inside a “period-appropriate” pine coffin and sent to the National Cemetery near Schuylerville. Civil War re-enactors stood guard over the coffin until it was buried last week on the 147^th anniversary of the battle. The grave marker says it’s an unknown soldier who died at Antietam. “We’re going to remember him as a hero,” says Donald E. Roy, the director of New York’s Military Forces Honor Guard (and a civilian)—although, of course, no one knows who the soldier was or what he really did.

Next was the story of John F. Wescott Jr., who was fooling around with findagrave.com and discovered that his great, great, great grandpa, Capt. Andrew W. Davis of the 8^th Infantry Regiment of New Jersey, was buried in an unmarked grave in Newark. Last Saturday the Wescotts got together and installed a marker from the Veterans Administration over the Captain, who died from the wound he got when he was shot in the leg at Gettysburg.

These two dead Civil War soldiers caught my attention because at the time I was reading This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War, by Drew Gilpin Faust. Of course I was aware that the Civil War changed the way death was regarded in the U.S.—it furthered the development and use of embalming, for one thing. But Faust’s book explains how far-reaching the changes were. The slaughter brought about the Federal Government’s first foray into arranging its citizens’ personal lives, caused people to reject their religious beliefs, and resulted in both widespread sentimentality and cynicism. It launched a tentative move towards women’s rights, created big advances in the field of statistics, and made James Russell Lowell write bad poetry (and lots of people write atrocious songs). It caused people to fret about identifying and returning the remains of their dead—just like the box of bone bits in New York and the Captain’s grave in New Jersey. It’s a terrific book, well-researched and well-written, and I recommend it to you.

Thanks for reading my blogpost this time, and may God bless.

Botulin Homebrew

Last week was my first week of downsizeism, and I have been working hard to stay positive and do all the things one is supposed to do. I told everyone I'm looking for work, I filed for unemployment, and one day I even went to a networking group I'd heard about. They meet twice a month in a cafe near my house, so I ambled down and walked in to find a dozen middle-aged suburban white ladies sitting in a circle. They asked me what I did for a living, and I said I was an editor, and it turned out they all were editors too, and then they began chanting, "We accept her! We accept her! Gooba-gabba! One of us!" and basically scared the crap out of me. I ran out into the rain and hid under a circus wagon until they went away.

On the way home I stopped to pick up our weekly vegetable half-share. There's this deal in our village where you can sign up and pay in advance to have a local organic farmer bring you whatever vegetables they harvest each week from about June through November. We thought it was too expensive for us, but then a couple of our friends signed up and realized they couldn't possibly eat all that kale, so we bought half of their share and now we eat a LOT of vegetables, many of which I had never previously heard of. (Rattail radishes?) The quality varies, from arugula that was so bug-eaten it looked like lace to some of the most delicious squash I've ever had. One thing I'd never tried before is Swiss chard, but we started getting bunches of it, all different sorts--some with red stalks, some with yellow, some silvery--and that's when I decided to experiment with lactic fermentation.

We have a really tiny refrigerator and don't have room to keep massive amounts of food, so I've been looking into other ways to preserve stuff. I got a book called Preserving Food Without Freezing or Canning, by the Gardeners & Farmers of Terre Vivante, and it recommended this way to preserve chard stalks that sounded pretty simple. You cut up the stalks and pack 'em in a jar with some water. The next day, you take 'em out and rinse 'em and change the water. Same thing the following day, but you also add a little salt to the water and make sure you fill up the jar to where there's no air bubbles. Then you stick the jar in the basement and wait a month. If everything goes according to science, lactic microbial organisms will develop and convert the vegetable surgars into lactic acid, which makes it impossible for the bad bacteria to develop and spoil the food. (If you consider chard stalks to be food.)

Everything seemed to be going well the first day: The stalks looked pretty in the jar, and there was a bubbly froth on top when I opened it to change the water. Then I noticed the warning in the book about how the USDA and FDA recommend that all fermented foods should be canned in a hot water bath to prevent against botulism. "Readers should of course use their best judgment," say the Gardeners and Farmers of Terre Vivant. I'd also missed the part about how this process doesn't work if your water has any chlorine in it. I'd been filling the jar with filtered water (does a regular Brita filter remove chlorine?), but I'd rinsed the stalks in water from the tap. So now I have a jar of probably botulin cooking in my basement. Maybe I can invite the networking ladies over for a DIY botox party.

Thanks for reading my blogpost this time, and may God bless.

Patent Quiz

After the unfortunate passing of Michael, everything from His favorite pill combos, to His child custody problems, to His music publishing issues, to His preferred brand of toothpaste have been dismembered, torn, and tossed into the final press to eek out any remaining dregs of data for the (us?) media vultures.

During this whole circus, you may have discovered that the guy from Toto actually wrote "Human Nature" (thanks Doron). Or perhaps you came across Michael's patent for "Method and means for creating anti-gravity illusion" (thanks Listener Colin & Ron) - PDF here, diagram below.

My buddy Dennis also sent along a few other patent documents filed by notable folks: images are below the jump, see if you can put a name to the images.

 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Horndogs Rejoice! - Sexlab Cometh

Have you ever wanted to ask a WFMU radio personality about cunnilingus technique, clitoral stimulation, anal doucheing or "the helicopter"? Yeah, maybe not. But this Friday you'll have your chance anyway, when Sexlab hits the Web waves.

Conceived in a hailstorm of double entendres by our illustrious Queen of Friday Nights, Pseu "Honey Pot" Braun, and gestated in a dong-shaped space station by Pseu and her colleagues / co-researchers Mark "ASS9000" Allen and myself, Wm. "Money Shot" Berger, Sexlab is designed to hold your, um, "hand" and glide you into this new century of suckin' and fuckin'.

While Dave Mandl fills in for Pseu at our FM frequencies and on the regular Web stream, Sexlab will be streaming (with volume AND distance!) at an alternate Web feed accessible at wfmu.org. As Mark says, "online only, because in the Internet the FCC can't hear you curse."

And me? I started rubbing it to Morticia Addams when I was eight years old, and I haven't looked back since. I've been told more than once that I have an "enthusiasm," a certain bonus zeal for the sex act, so hopefully my life of gradual transition from hyper-libidinous man-slut to happily monogged married man will be of service to someone. And my colleagues, well they're unrepentantly horny bastards, too. Either way, Pseu, Mark and I can pretty much guarantee it will be funny (and hopefully genuinely informative as well.)

Sexlab will be live on the Web, this Friday, May 22, from 8-11 p.m. ET. We'll be taking your calls at (201) 209–9368 (for those prone to jump the gun, store that load in your third eye and call us then, not before.) If you'd like to submit a question or suggest a discussion topic in advance (or during the broadcast), we've set up a special email address: asksexlab@wfmu.org

Sexlab Facebook Page (for throbbing members only)

Look Around You - Music (video)

More Info | More Videos

Ronnie and Donnie

How the hell do Ronnie and Donnie Galyon do it?  Permanently fused at the collarbone and ending at the groin.  Fifty-eight years of coming back around to having to look each other dead in the eye again for another twenty-four hours once they're done checking out girls and heckling the ref.  The Schappell sisters have it easy, as far as I'm concerned; sisters whisper secrets in each others' ears and don't stop when they reach "the age" where they're not supposed to do that anymore.  Given the choice I believe most sisters wouldn't mind sharing a brain.  Each one would be right there for the next secret that cannot be disclosed to anyone else, the next problem that needs immediate unlicensed psychoanalysis and treatment.

Brothers joined at the head?  They'd bleed to death from pelting each other with cans of half drunk beer.  They'd drive each other batshit and you and I know it.  A six-inch sub's distance is enough of a proximity, and even then.  My twin and I quit whispering secrets ear-to-ear by age nine.

   

Stain, Afterburn, and Echo / the Aftermyth of Throbbing Gristle

The immersion. A stinging. There is only color. No shape. No front or back, simply orbits rippling back from a central disturbance. Some lighter bodies become vapor rather than resolve into the growing hum that shoots through mass and time.

Gettin’ a Buzz On

A couple weeks ago I drove up to Rosendale, New York, near New Paltz, to take a beekeeping class given by Chris Harp of Honeybee Lives. It’s a beautiful area of New York, full of pretty little towns where things are actually happening. There are many admirable hippies living up there—not the stupid, pothead hippies who lie around in their own excrement because it’s “natural,” but hard-working hippies who know how to modify their diesel automobiles to run on vegetable oil and then start a bio-diesel co-op to provide their own fuel.

The class was held in the Sustainable Resource Living Center, a hexagonal (!) building with many sustainable features that I can’t remember now, but we had to take off our shoes before we could go in and walk on the floor and the coffee was really good. Chris Harp has been a beekeeper for almost 20 years, and has developed a natural, organic approach based on respect for the social structure and behavior of bees.

Blimpienilla, Filet-o-Fish

For a long time, Scientists and Experts have said that the Indo-European language family--the one that includes English--dates back about 9,000 years. Why 9,000? How did they get that number? I don't know, you'd have to ask them. But now some Super Linguists from England have determined that there are some words that are 20,000 years old! So if you went way, way back in time, and were talking to cavemen, and you said certain words that are in English today, the cavemen would understand you. Kind of. I imagine it would be sort of like that episode of Star Trek, where Captain Kirk said the Pledge of Allegiance to the Yangs and Coms. But somehow, the Super Linguists know about the words used by cavemen in the time before written language, and those words were I, thou, we, who, two, three, and five. And those are just the English ones, because the Super Linguists are English, I guess. I mean, maybe there are German Super Linguists who have found 20,000-year-old words in German: Handschu! Or Greek, or Indian.

But the Super Linguists also projected themselves into the future, and found the English words most likely to disappear in the next 1,000 years. Not even 20,000 years, but just 1,000--that soon! And of course you might think, like, telephone, or fax or minidisc. Newspaper. Pledge drive. There are a lot of possibilities, things you might think of--but the Super Linguists do not think, they KNOW. They know that the words most likely to disappear in the next 1,000 years are dirty, bad, stick, and wipe. And how am I gonna communicate with DJ Bryce without them?

Thanks for reading my blogpost this time, and please pledge your support to WFMU.

It's Why We Say Gesundheit

I am minding my own business, sitting at Gate 62 in LAX ready to fly back to the east coast. In the morning, I will hit the ground running, as I'm going to be hosting Cheetah Chrome with very special guests The Blackhearts on my program the next day on very little sleep. My mind is jammed with my "to-do" list; my hopes of catching some shuteye on the plane, what records I need to pull and notes I need for my program, what the weather will be like when I get back --and other annoyances. THEN I become absolutely, and completely 100% present to what I see walking past me at Gate 62...

Bat Day

Baseball season is a distant memory - even more so for those of us in the NY area - it's rare that a local team isn't in contention- we've been uninterested for so long now, it seems like the schedule ended sometime in 2007.

I was at the humble abode of my brother and his family the other night. The kids were winding down and the McBoingboing residence was descending into the lull that marks the end of the weekend. A shriek, and then a stampede of people come running up the steps from the family room. There's yelping, howling and other modes of expression coming from what I knew to be humans; eyeballs nearly popping out of heads, hands clasped to mouths and a lot of  stuttering. A BAT IS DOWNSTAIRS. So the weekend hasn't yet ended, apparently.

I just had to...

Someone's done the math, wikipedia listing...
http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Cat-Toast_Device

That Explains It

The other day Listner Jim told me about an interesting study by Scientists and Experts. It seems that you can take someone who is pretty set in their beliefs about something, and show them actual, factual evidence that their beliefs are wrong—and not only will it not matter that they’re wrong, but the factual evidence to the contrary will make their adherence to their incorrect beliefs even stronger. I don’t know exactly which study Listner Jim had in mind, but you can find lots of them if you Google “belief perseverance” or “confirmation bias.” Those Scientists and Experts are a busy bunch.

This helps explain the Troy Davis case, I guess. Troy Davis was arrested in 1989 and charged with shooting off-duty police officer Mark MacPhail during a scuffle in a Burger King parking lot. He was convicted in 1991, based solely on the testimony of witnesses. There was absolutely no physical evidence connecting MacPhail to the crime. (The gun was never found.) Seven of the nine witnesses who testified against Davis have recanted their testimony, and most say they were coerced by police into signing statements—some say they did not even read the statements they signed. (One was even illiterate.) They just wanted the police to let them go and leave them alone. One of the two “witnesses” who has not recanted his testimony is an alternate suspect against whom new evidence does exist. A couple of the original prosecution witnesses now say that this man is the one who killed Officer MacPhail. But in spite of all the facts that point to Troy Davis being innocent, the Supreme Court of Georgia has denied him a new trial, and the Georgia State Board of Pardon and Paroles has refused to commute Troy Davis’ death sentence, and unless the Supreme Court of the United States does something before 7:00 PM tonight (less than two hours from the time I am writing this), the state of Georgia will execute Troy Davis, who says he never killed anybody. The facts also say he probably didn’t, but the facts just seem to make the Georgia authorities more determined to put Troy Davis to death.

I see the same phenomenon every time I mention how John McCain “wet started” the fire on the USS Forrestal, or whenever I say “Keating 5” or “Savings and Loan bail-out” or “disfigured first wife.” My little Republican friends’ eyes glaze over, and they just get more determined to vote for this guy. Or maybe it's Sarah Palin they're voting for. I got about a dozen forwarded emails this morning concerning some PBS poll where people are being asked whether Palin is qualified to be Vice President. The YES vote was winning, and these folks were all agitated and wanted everyone to go vote NO. But I think they’re missing the point: It’s a poll, and most people are voting YES, and that means that most people—or most of the people responding to the poll, anyway—think she is qualified. You fancy liberals better come up with something better than clicking your mouse NO and thinking you’ve accomplished something. Because any facts you can produce to show that Sarah Palin is way out of her league are only going to make those YES folks more convinced that she’s great VP material. And what are you gonna do about that?

Bird Lives!

Happy 63rd anniversary to Mike the Headless Chicken, who on this date in 1945 lost his noggin, but found oh so much more.

Just an unassuming yardbird gamboling about the homestead of Fruita, Colorado, farmer Lloyd Olsen, Mike was, on that fateful day, a 5½-month old Wyandotte rooster slated for the Olsen's evening repast. Fortunately for Mike, Lloyd's axe-wielding skills were lousy and the farmer's attempted execution went awry. Sure, Mike's clucker was lopped clear off, but certain key anatomical features (brain stem, esophageal passage, an ear, don't ask) remained intact, and, bizarrely, our feathered friend survived the encounter. In fact, the lucky duck went to bed that night with his own head tucked under a wing!

Well, in true can-do American spirit, Mike kept on strutting his stuff for the next 18 months, becoming a nationwide celebrity pulling in an absurd $4,500 a month while touring the country and posing for spreads in Life and Time. He even had a personal manager. Sure, the highlife caught up with Mike and he came to a sad end choking to death in an Arizona motel room, but even in death, our headless hero continues to capture the imagination of a nation, what, with a Guinness world record, a website, a MySpace page and even a song (MP3 by Frank Meyer).

And of course there's an inspirational video: