WFMU's Beware of the Blog

I Was a Viking Once

I was a Viking once.  I led a ship, and I was a woman. I know it sounds crazy, because we don't hold Vikings to be suffragettes in the common sense of the word, but this was just one of the many positions of authority I supposedly held in my previous lives.  The Viking ID made the most sense to me.  I am still a major fan of Scandi Design and who doesn't love a well tailored, padded leather tunic?  I never pick up my iron spearhead without one.  But the underlying proof of my Viking past is my attachment to the sea.  Sort of like a mythical Irish silkie,  made land locked by her lover stealing her magical seal skin, I am just not myself when I get too far away from water.  In my imaginary life I live in a lighthouse, surrounded by lapping currents and crying birds.  And of course a huge Newfoundland dog, to aid in sea rescue.  A few weekends ago I lived that imaginary life, alas without the Newfie, for a mere 24 hours and it was truly magical.
     The Saugerties Lighthouse, in Saugerties NY, is one of several lighthouses on the east coast that were once made redundant, and then got a second chance as a bed and breakfast.  Built on the Hudson River in 1869, it was inhabited by a lighthouse keeper and family until 1954. That changed when the Coast Guard installed an automated light, no longer requiring a keeper, and the house fell into disrepair.  It has since been taken over by a conservancy group and fitted with two guest bedrooms.  Restored as it might have looked in the early 20th century, with a working Victrola and coal burning stove for heat, the lighthouse is indeed a century away from New York City, located only one hundred miles up the Hudson.  To add to the thrill of disengaging from modern life, you hike out about 15 minutes along a densely covered peninsula, to reach the lighthouse, and this must be done avoiding high tide, as the path is then covered in a foot of water.  You thought your last tour at Glastonbury was muddy...

After we spent our restful night at the lighthouse, under the newly installed watchful solar beam, and showered in collected rainwater held in a cistern, we ate a wonderful breakfast prepared by the innkeeper Patrick, and headed out for the Woodstock Farm Animal Sanctuary. A little chance and the calling of a handsome graphic made us screech to a halt at Lucky Chocolates.  Some of the best chocolates this side of Paris, I do declare (and remember I was a Viking and have traveled the high seas, so I should know).  Gorgeously handmade and exotically flavored, I loved the Earl Grey best, but don't stop there, try every flavor if you can.  A few doors down from Lucky Chocolates on route 212, is a shop entirely devoted to English food, if you are in dire need of Yorkshire tea, which it so happens I was.  Order has been restored to my universe, once again I am drinking my favorite tea, and all it took was a trip to a lighthouse on the Hudson to make it all work.
      The Woodstock Farm Animal Sanctuary is located 8 miles west of Woodstock.  It is a nonprofit organization that provides a home for animals who have escaped from slaughterhouses, rescued from abusive situations, or in some cases just had no where else to go, once a farm closed shop.  Their mission is education about the horrors of industrialized farming methods, but their goodwill ambassadors are such charming farm yard friends that they will have you re-thinking your last hamburger and start you on a quest to find ways to incorporate more lentils into your diet, or at least that was the effect it had on me. 
     I can't honestly imagine living in the early 19th century, where a broken bone would have most likely led to amputation, but I can yearn for a lighthouse of my own, and still dream about my idol Ida Lewis, and wonder why, at the very least,  she doesn't have a rest stop named after her.  In the meantime, regular trips to Saugerties will tide me over.

Economus Stimulis

What are you guys doing with your extra check from Uncle Sam?  I will be spending a frivolous night in The Shagadellic (Room #1) <<<--- at the Roxbury Hotel "nestled amongst the picturesque Catskill Mountains in the historic village of Roxbury".  I'm a sucker for a good theme motel. 

Here's Ol' Dirty Bastard to tell you all about it.

Money (mp3)

The Drive-In Lives

Now that the Spring is finally springing, I've got a hankerin for two things.

One, is celebrating the final season of classic Coney Island. It should be noted that Coney has always been a place for change, it's just too bad we know live in an era where change becomes corporate homogenization. However, there is good news: though the parks themselves are being replaced, the Coney Island Freakshow and Coney Island Museum are getting bigger and better now that they own the building. Hooray!

The other outdoor activity that I can't live without is the Drive-In. Yes, it too is a dying beast, but a few hearty places live on. The best may well be the Starlight Drive-In in Atlanta. Not only do they host an annual Monster Bash and two day B-Movie marathon that makes a special road trip worth while, but they may possibly have the coolest concession stand on the planet.

That's just the tip of the iceberg. Check out more Starlight concession stand photos via Flickr user Zombophoto. (While you're there, take the time to look over his 8 Track Tape collection, and a house so jam-packed with cool collectible stuff that it might even make the Cramps jealous. Okay, maybe not - because they have a LOT of stuff.)

Boring Postcards

One of my favorite art books is a collection of ephemera gathered by Magnum photographer Martin Parr. In is own work, Parr is well known for being able to pull the sublime out of the mundane with playful sense of humor, so it makes sense that as a hobby he has collected the worst of postcards. To date he has compiled three books out of them: Boring Postcards, Boring Postcards USA and Langweilige Postkarten.

This trilogy of self-explanatory titles are a delight to peruse (read an in-depth review of the books here), and it is especially refreshing that Parr doesn't bother to try and over- analyze their artistic merit (however, you can listen to a marvelous discussion on the past and history of amateur photography with Parr here). In fact, he doesn't write anything at all about the postcards. You are just to look upon them and feel, erm, bored. 

Flickr also has a pool of Boring Postcards, though the term seems rather loosely defined by its users. While this pool features some fine examples of postcards with the utter dullness of Parr's examples, it also has too many postcards of historical buildings (often quite pretty if not interestingly photographed) and postcards that are merely "old". In other words, not nearly unexceptional enough. Besides, how could anyone possibly define a maggot salesman postcard as "boring"?

This slight disconnect got me to thinking: what is it that makes a postcard boring?
Certainly there is the composition: bland, flat shots of rather uninteresting subjects. However, it isn't a lack of "art" that truly yanks an image into dullsville. It's that sad feeling that it gives you inside. Not only does someone think you need to celebrate this moment/place/advertisement/emptiness, but that you will want to relive it for a lifetime, keep a picture of it, and share it with friends.

To illustrate, here are some from my collection:

Del-Ray Motel, w miles west of City on Rt. 40. Indianapolis, Indiana.

Follow the jump for more boring images.

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.

Hello from Columbus, Ohio (mp3s)

The great state of Ohio has raised legends. Cleveland's known for hall-of-famers Pere Ubu and the Electric Eels. Dayton nurtured Kim Deal and Bob Pollard. And from its well-situated spot in between those two cities, the state capital of Columbus is starting to have some sort of cohesive musical identity thrust upon it. What with NME and MTV creaming on Times New Viking and Psychedelic Horseshit. Not to say it's undeserved - I think their excellent live sets in the WFMU studios (TNV) (PHS) are testament enough.

What follows is a sampling - by no means comprehensive - of some of the other Columbus musicians you'll be able to hear on WFMU's Free Music Archive. MP3's from The Guinea Worms, Necropolis, Tommy Jay's Tall Tales of Trauma, Mike Rep & the Quotas, Mors Ontologica, The Lindsay*, El Jesus de Magico, Ryan Jewell, and Sword Heaven after the jump. Feel free to suggest more in the comments.

Care for a swim?

Last week on my radio show, I played a set of tunes from Zimbabwe in honor of the recent elections there and the hopes of removing the execrable Robert Mugabe from power. Responding to the music, a listener, Peter R., emailed me some photographs of tourists going for a dip in the Zambezi River.*

Africa's fourth longest river, the Zambezi marks, for a 300-mile stretch, the border between Zimbabwe and Zambia. The swimmers happened to be in the water at just about the point where the upper Zambezi, er, flows into the middle Zambezi. This location is also known as Victoria Falls— the locals call it Mosi-oa-Tunya (Smoke That Thunders). Often referred to as one of the world's Seven Natural Wonders, Victoria Falls is more than twice the height of Niagara Falls.

Known as the Devil's Pool or Devil's Swimming Pool, the refreshing spot happens to be mere inches from the edge of the falls. That is, the falling part of the falls. Astonishing photos of loopy vacationers splashing at death's edge have been making the rounds lately, but nothing quite captures the knee-knocking thrill of the scene like this footage:

For a thrilling first-person description of a Devil's Pool frolic, read writer Michael Joseph Gross's account in the New York Times.

*I'm not sure if listener Peter was aware of this curious connection between the photos he sent and the music I played in tribute to Zimbabwe's re-liberation: Despite the fact that Mugabe has unleashed violent political repression throughout the country, there have been pockets of fairly open opposition. One such area just happens to be the city of Victoria Falls itself. Located on the Zimbabwean side of the Zambezi, Vic Falls has been a hotbed of support for the MDC (Movement for Democratic Change) and its leader—and (fingers crossed) Zimbabwe's new president—Morgan Tsvangirai. Mugabe has resisted lashing back at the town in fear of scaring off desperately needed tourist dollars that are attracted by the Falls.

Somebody say "boat"?

Look, Mike, an Even Bigger Boat!

Seriously, a big ass boat!

SXSW: Butts, Bulls, Backpatches & BBQ

Ah, so there I was, in the land where everything has to do with meat or music, in one way or another. I had never ventured to this conference/land o' plenty festivalism before and was glad to see what all the ruckus was about! After checking in, dropping my stuff off at my friend Mer's house, and receiving my SX gear, I went to the first venue of many. I started my "holiday" as it were, at Red 7, to see the mighty EASY ACTION, yea! I caught John, Harold, Tony & Matt in the backyard/second stage of the venue before they went on & captured some of this buttiness... I mean nuttiness...OK, so it was not really a big deal, I thought it was amazing that Mr. Gold, Mr. Red and Mr. Silver all had no pantylines - these guys are pros - no doubt performing at a venue near you soon. EA vocalist John Brannon told me that he was going to be singing some Negative Approach songs later in the week with Fucked Up on the famous Congress Street "Bat" Bridge at 2am. Most of the bats are still away in warmer Mexico, but just the idea of seeing anyone play at 2am on a bridge that's famous for bat migration was pretty great.

Childhood Humiliations: Disneyland

When I was eight years old, my family took a Vacation-style road trip from Denver all the way to Orange County, California. While it was a two week journey with plenty of action, there are only two really crystal clear memories I have of that trip. One is of my mother and I taking turns talking to truckers on the CB radio. The other is, of course, Disneyland.

A family can't go anywhere near California without the kids asking about Disneyland. Heck, a family can't go on a trip at all without the kids asking about Disneyland. It's mecca. I was never much into Disney, except Herbie the Love Bug which I was obsessed with because my mom drove a VW. Still, even I lost all rationale thinking about Fantasyland and Tomorrowland and that giant Cinderella castle.

Disneyland didn't disappoint. I remember playing on Tom Sawyer's Island, which I never wanted to leave. I remember riding It's A Small World and giggling with my mother because we were both kind of terrified. And I remember waiting outside the Matterhorn as everyone else went on the ride because there was no way - absolutely no fucking way - I was going to ride a roller coaster down a mountain. 

But mostly I remember Great Moments with Mister Lincoln. 

Follow the jump for the humiliating part....

Grammatical Adventure on the E Train

If you saw a flyer boasting "Prostitution Reform" crumpled up on the floor of the E train, you'd pick it up, too. Dirt, footprints, grammatical errors, and a most confusing message... nothing could have provided more entertainment for Maria Levitsky and I, who giggled all the way home.

I challenge any of you grammar geeks out there to take a stab at this. Download the PDFs:  front  |  back

Field Recordings from Tibet: Cho Oyu 8201m

It's frosty here in NJ and it's times like these that I like to pull out a record that came out a couple years back by Geir Jenssen of Biosphere, called Cho Oyu 8201m: Field Recordings from Tibet on the Ash International label. This unassuming audio documentary is made up of simple MiniDisc recordings taken at various stages of Jenssen's long trek up one of the world's tallest mountains. I first heard it when I played a track on the radio in 2006, and found its haunting wind noises and fluttering bird sounds completely mesmerizing and inspirational. No windscreen can obscure the bitter cold whipping around at the summit, really the most effective kind of travelogue.

Most of the album, like an actual trek, seems to be assembled from moments of anticipation, the waiting that accompanies basecamp life, decidedly less romantic than peak bagging.  The payoff of actually reaching the peak is somewhat anticlimactic, just as the climax in real life is in returning to a habitable elevation.  Reading the actual travel diary that accompanies the recordings only enhances the feelings of boredom, vertigo, sleeplessness, and extreme cold. The world's tallest mountains have always held a powerful allure and mystique, as objectionable as the human desire to conquer nature can be.  If you have a lust for adventure, a pile of cash, and a couple of loose screws, you too can climb the world's highest peaks.  Or you could just listen to Jenssen's version, the portrait of an adventure.   It's cold in Jersey, but hey, at least your pals next door aren't sucking on oxygen bottles to stave off insanity, right?

Geir Jenssen - Cho Oyu Basecamp: Morning
Geir Jenssen - Camp 3: Neighbours On Oxygen

What Would It Be Like To Be a WFMU DJ on Another Planet?

What would it be like to be a WFMU DJ on another planet? Let's explore the possibility, using the planets of our own solar system as examples! We'll begin with the farthest-away, newly demoted "dwarf planet." If the four floors (and don't forget the basement) of the WFMU in building in Jersey City was to be planted firmly on the ground somewhere in the middle of Pluto (a solid 70% rock, and 30% ice), and you were broadcasting from that building, you'd find little light, few friends, and would probably be complaining about the building's heating system not working right. It would no doubt be remarkably lonely doing a radio show, literally billions and billions of miles away from the "WFMU 91.1 FM East Orange, WXHD Mount Hope, and wfmu.org on the web" that existed for you on Earth as a station ID only...yet now is oh so very far away (overnight shift anyone?). But whatever you do, make sure you don't step your suicidal outer space self outside onto the deck of Studio A for a cigarette break, or step outside at all, because Pluto's atmosphere is extremely tenuous, consisting mostly of nitrogen, carbon monoxide and methane (plus wear a hat, it's 508 degrees below zero fahrenheit). But, feel free to throw on a long Stockhausen CD and go look out the studio windows pensively—Pluto seems designed for such daydream-y behavior. The glow of Pluto's frozen methane, ethane and carbon monoxide "lakes" will look stunning from the second story atrium window as well, as they reflect sunlight coming from 3,670,050,000 miles away (give an take a million, due to Pluto's notoriously erratic orbit path). As for Neptune...

Singing Postcards from Listener Marty (# 4)

Check out this goofy Italian tune, sung by the questionably cross-eyed actor Mario Riva. "Domenica e Sempre Domenica" (which means "Sunday is always Sunday") was a movie made in 1958 based on a popular TV variety show, Il Muscheire.

Mario Riva - "Domenica E Sempre Domenica" (MP3)

Thanks to Listener Marty, who keeps hooking us up with strange vintage flexidisc postcards! See more singing postcards here ( 1  | 2 | 3 ).

Hot Rails to Harrison -- A PATH Train Primer for 2008

I expect a heated discussion on this, seeing as how anyone who lives in New York City, urban North Jersey, or who is affiliated with WFMU will have an opinion on the topic at hand. For those of you who reside on faraway shores, "PATH" is short for Port Authority Trans-Hudson, and is a highly-trafficked means of rail transport between Manhattan and some of New Jersey's primary population centers. (Newark, Hoboken, and WFMU's home in Jersey City). Basically, it's like a cheaper, slower subway that smells like urine, coffee, and heat all at the same time. There's a lot of negative mythology associated with the PATH system, mostly promulgated by Brooklyn transplants who somehow think their accursed L and F trains are better than the PATH. (I have met others who actually think that the PATH is just that -- an underground dirt path that connects New York with suburban Jersey. Others claim that it is actually a long stagecoach, pulled by a mule who is chasing a carrot tied to a stick and dangled in front of its face. All lies, I tell you.)

The fact is that the PATH is pretty much a way of life for everyone at WFMU from DJs to office staffers to volunteers. I find myself defending it frequently to the misinformed haters who spread ridiculous falsehoods such as "the turnstiles only take dollar bills" (they take your Metrocard, dummy), "it stops running after 11 PM" (it runs all night -- on a schedule, I might add), or "that guy Teddy always hassles me" (he isn't hassling you, he just wants to collect money to supply the local homeless shelter with juice, milk, and bread.) When riding the PATH train, I always recommend that you sit in the frontmost car, as close to the window as possible, and looking straight ahead. Careening through the old tunnels and observing the architecture necessary to bore a passage underneath a river is pretty amazing, and it feels like a demented version of one of those Disneyworld rides where animatronic pirates or dead presidents light the way ahead.

For those of you not fortunate enough to regularly participate in this modern marvel of urban transportation, here is a rough breakdown of all thirteen PATH stations and what you might expect to find at each of them.

The Mouse That Roared

A friend told me that she saw a short film a few years ago about a man in Austria who built his own unique house, and then declared it an independent nation. She couldn't remember who this man was, but a little of the old internet searching finally brought me around to the story of Edwin Lipburger.

In 1971, this Austrian artist built a most intriguing home, one that is completely spherical. After building his "Sphaera 2000" in the small village of Katzelsdorf, he then came into trouble with the local government for refusing to procure permits for his project.

Lipburger reached an agreement in 1984 to move the house to Vienna. But the city then reversed their offer to pay for the costs of the move (and hooking up water and power), prompting Lipburger to form his own tiny Republic of Kugelmugel ("Ball Hill"). To defray costs, he began to issue his own stamps and passports.

This created a bit of a local media sensation, but the government wasn't pleased. Lipburger was arrested for refusing to pay taxes. Fortunately, after only a few weeks in prison he was pardoned by the Austrian President.

The sphere still occupies the grounds of the Vienna Prater, where it is an oft-ignored side attraction. Even though Lipburger was usurped, they still sell it to the tourists as an independent republic.

Part nation, part home, and all work of art, this may be worth a pilgrimage on your next visit to Austria. Even if they won't even let you look at the inside. Boo to that!

Further reading:

• Details on the Republic (from Lonely Planet's Micro Nations tour guide)
• Croy Nielsen Gallery 2005 exhibit on Kugelmugel
• Cabinet Magazine's "Minor History of Giant Spheres"

Singing Postcards from Listener Marty (#3)

Here's yet another fun, schmaltzy singing postcard from Listener Marty. These strange little European Fonoscope flexis were made to be played on a turntable, so I've captured the audio from quite a few to share with you.

Sit back and take in the view of Milan (left) and relax to the smooth, manly crooning of Italian actor Corrado Lojacono: "Voca Rossa" (MP3).

Check out more musical postcards here and here.

I Wish They All Could Be Gyaru Girls

The following is a snippet of conversation between me and Ed Shepp at the recent WFMU Holiday Party:

Mark: No Ed, I've never tried Norival. By the way, I like the black around your eyes.
Ed: Oh my God! I wanted it, but wasn't sure I applied it right -- I just took the pencil and went like *r-e-e-a-a-u-h-h* around each eye.
Mark: It looks great, it's smeared perfectly, like you're in rehab and have dark circles.
Ed: Oh my God! That's what I was going for!
Mark: It's like the opposite of those girls in Japan, the "Gyaru" girls.
Ed: What's that?

Death Valley's Amargosa Opera House & Hotel: I Spent My Wedding Night in a Haunted Hotel

One year ago this week, my girlfriend and I became My Wife And I.  After hitching up at the drive-thru, we grabbed some quick coffee and bolted outta Vegas.  Newly de-bastardized baby in tow, we headed west: Death Valley.  We didn't have a plan, but we had a reservation: one night, and one night only, at the Amargosa Opera House & Hotel.  (Our room, #22: the *Red Skelton Room, is pictured here)

Some background:  the Amargosa Opera House & Hotel is owned and overseen by a one-time Broadway actress / dancer / ballerina named Marta Becket.  Marta and her then-husband were on vacation in 1967 when they got a flat tire in Death Valley Jct, Ca.  While hubby went to fix the flat, Marta explored the old hotel that once housed all the Borax factory workers back in the long gone boom days.  Perpendicular to this long adobe building was a theatre, which, Marta claimed, "seemed to be saying..... Take me.....do something with me.....I offer you life".  Marta took the building up on its offer, moved in, and soon began dancing in it, 3 nights a week.  Given the sparse population density of her adopted desert home, she didn't always have an audience - and thus, the epiphany to paint a trompe-l'œil audience on the walls and ceiling of the theatre. 

With no one to see and nothing to do, by the mid-1970s Marta had fully populated her world with her colorful creations.  Her painting style was cheerful and bright, and certainly amateurish, but she had a perceptive eye - and an unfailing sense of the perverse.  Here's a series of portraits that adorn the lone hallway of her hotel:

Following charming portraits of Robin Williams, Bob Odenkirk and Joanna Newsom, she paints a blank portrait?  This was the first of many things to haunt me during our wedding night spent at the Amargosa Opera House & Hotel.

Resident Clinton's Top 10 Places Visited in the US during 2007

1) THE HOUSE ON THE ROCK, Spring Green, Wisconsin

2) DETROIT METROPOLITAN AIRPORT LIGHT TUNNEL, Detroit, Michigan

3) THE HARVARD MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY, Cambridge, Massachusetts

4) CASA BONITA, Denver, Colorado

5) CICADA INFESTATION, Chicago, Illinois

6) CONEY ISLAND, New York City

7) THE ORIGINAL ALAMO DRAFTHOUSE, Austin Texas

8) PIKE PLACE MARKET, Seattle, Washington

9) POWELL'S BOOKS, Portland, Oregon

10) RESTAURANT FLORENT, New York City

Details, videos and much more on all of the above after the jump.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving: Drive Someone Insane

My friends over at Culture Geeks just pointed me to what may, in fact, be my favorite example of how the internet and snail mail can work together to make pranks a regular part of your daily intake. I speak of this ebay auction item (excerpt):

DRIVE SOMEONE INSANE WITH POSTCARDS

You are bidding on a rare chance to traumatize a treasured friend or relative with baffling, mind-numbing, mystery correspondence from abroad. I will be spending the Christmas holiday in Poland in a tiny village that has one church with no bell because angry Germans stole it. Aside from vodka, there is not a lot for me to do. During the course of my holiday I will send three postcards to one person of your choosing.

These postcards will be rant-ravingly insane, yet they will be peppered with unmistakable personal details about the addressee. Details you will provide me. The postcards will not be coherently signed, leaving your mark confused, guessing wildly, crying out in anguish. "How do I know this person? And how does he know I had a ferret named Goliath?"

Your beloved friend or relative will try in vain to figure out who it is. Best of all, it can't possibly be you because you'll have the perfect alibi: you're not in Poland. You're home, wherever that is, doing whatever it is you do when not driving your friends loopy with international prankery. Your target will rack their brains in the shower. At dinner. During long drives. At work. On the golf course. "Who did I tell about the time I got fired by a note on my chair?" they'll ponder,  "And where the hell is Szczecinek?"

To add to the sheer confusion and genuine discomfort, one missive will be on an original promotional postcard announcing the 1995 television premiere of Central Park West on CBS. Another will be a postcard celebrating Atlanta's disastrous hosting of the 1996 summer Olympic games.

And the winning bid: $415.00!

You can thank comedy writer Brian Sack for the original prank (and for a hilarious Facebook Hitler profile also on his site), which may evolve into a "trend", because now there are seven "drive someone insane" offers on ebay. But none of them even remotely have the panache or innocence of the original, and they reek of opportunism (Sack wasn't really trying to make money, just have some silly fun).

But that doesn't mean it isn't a prank worth playing. So what are you waiting for? You are certainly more clever than some lame Glen Beck fan. If you live or are traveling somewhere a little bit odd (sorry Florida and NY copycats - that just does not cut the mustard for an "insane" postmark), jump on the bandwagon and offer to give the gift that keeps on giving. And you don't even have to ebay it. Offer to do it for free just for the love of the game.

Pictured above: Szczecinek Coat of Arms

If a fish needs a bike ...

... does a duck need a car?

(And was it Spitzer's idea to give this volatile malcontent a license in the first place?)

In Space, No One Can Hear You Type

Ihaven'twrittenapostinawhile.Oops,Iforgottoputspacesbetweenthewords. There that's better.
Hey,IwonderwhatwouldhappenifIdidn'tputANYspacesbetweenthewordsasItyped? Atall? And...WhatIfIPutACapitalLetterAtTheBeginningOfEachWordLikeThisToMakeItEasier
ToRead? Hey, I wonder if...

Missionary encounters extremely bizarre skin condition in Eastern Europe (part 3)

Last March, I posted on this blog (here) photos of Ioan, a man in Romania suffering from one of the most unbelievable human skin afflictions ever seen, along with stories and interviews from a missionary working over there to help him. Nine months later, after much attention from the medical field, general global interest, and eventually the press, Ioan's growths have been identified, treated and reduced significantly (click below for more photos).