My College Radio Application

Dear mom and dad,

I went to college from 1999-2003, where I lived, ate, breathed, and smoked college radio (WOBC-FM) all day every day. Then, with a year left, I dropped out to move to CA to work for a magazine. I worked there for the next eight years. Then I fell in love with a beautiful woman and she got a job in town, so I decided to follow her here and finish my B.A. To my intense delight and surprise, this makes me eligible for a show on [yr station]. When I dropped out of college, I cryogenically froze my radio show and now, eight years later, [cue music bed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_tVZFZ5PR4] my beloved show is going into the industrial microwave on MEDIUM for 6-8 minutes and dragging itself through the halls of the academy once again!

My show (TITLE TK: “WEIRD OLD GUY?”) will be freeform radio at its finest, pushing into the red w/r/t innovation and FUN. Fun must never be sacrificed to innovation. And vice versa.

Music is the bedrock of the show, and I plan to make the most of [yr station]’s rock library, in addition to my extensive personal vinyl/CD/MPEG collection. The best rock — from oddities, novelties, classics, forgotten b-sides, to brand-new singles and previews of bands coming through town. But sprinkled throughout the music will be the true jewels of the show, the multiple talk-based segments. Possibilities include:

• “Walking the Line”
Each week, a different writer (from creative writing profs, to visiting poets, to MU poetry/fiction PhDs and even undergrads) brings in one line — a line of their own poetry, or their favorite poet’s, or a sentence from a novel, or from a piece of journalism, anything — just has to be one line of “literature” for us to discuss.

(Each of these segments will have its own musical intro. Maybe Grandmaster Flash’s “White Lines” for this first one? Or Johnny Cash, sure)

• “Comics Digest”

A weekly verbal recap of what happened this week in the comics page of the Missourian

ex: “It’s been a tough week for Lois of ‘Hi & Lois’; she’s been home with the measles and her little brother won’t leave her alone!” etc etc

• “Vibin’ with the City Council”

Each week I get a Columbia city councilperson on the phone (pre-recorded, most likely; I have a ZOOM H4N I can produce several of these segs in advance, but I’ll always cue and introduce them live) and ask: what’s the vibe of the city council like this week?

• deranged/brief Self-interviews; fake interviews with pre-recorded interlocutors

• I might try a recurring feature about being a 30 year old dude taking computer science with freshman; I will probably rip lots of samples from my DVD of Rodney Dangerfield’s Back to School for this (maybe rent Happy Madison, too…). Find other old undergrads and ask them about their lives, what it’s like here for them

• I have an MU football-related idea that I’ll only tell you if you give me a show with a legit timeslot

• Reviews (with field recordings) of frat party bands (!!!!!)

• as many opportunities for live call-in segments as possible (TBD)

• Guest singles (a guest — anyone from the dean of grad studies to that girl who works at Sparky’s brings in 5 singles and we play them and talk about them)

• tiny, hilarious 5-minute radio dramas

• even tinier, even more hilarious 2-minute radio dramas in foreign languages feat. students in various MU language departments

• Much, much more

• Seriously, so much more you have no idea

• And, as I mentioned above, all of these segs, some of which may happen every week, some once a month or so, will all be sprinkled like cherries and chopped nuts over the wide swath of whipped-creamy dark-chocolate sets of top-shelf weird/funky/great music. Wire, the Fall, Olivia Tremor Control, Pixies b-sides, Unrest, Big Dipper, Deerhoof, Beefheart, Squeeze, Elvis Costello, Sonic Youth, Truman the Tiger’s Drug-Hell Singers, Is That a Real Band?, That Would Be Amazing If So, Go Betweens, Soft Boys, Soft Machine, Soft Cell, Soft Bulletin, Don Cherry, Destroyer, Cluster, Tyvek, Essential Logic, Glasser, Wreckless Eric, Nick Lowe, Sparks, Magazine, Melvins, Cardigans, Acrylics, Pterodactl, Fela Kuti, R. Stevie Moore, et al!!!!

Please let me know if you have any questions. I love you.

The Crown of Bañals

SCENE ONE:

A stage in a crappy New England theater. A sloppily made bed “stands” (figuratively)  stage left. A lamp, some other furniture. A copy of Bonjour Tristesse and a bottle of buffered analgesic “stand” (figuratively) on the night-stand table. A silent 5-year old squirms weirdly in a  corner. He can be played by an adult if you don’t have convenient access to 5-year-old actors when you’re staging this play. Make sure no one from the theater company comes out and says anything before the play starts, no matter how imperative they make their fundraising/development efforts sound.

Someone named GRASS-FED CRABGRASS struts all sexy-like onstage, sits down at a desk, opens her white Apple laptop. She’s a regular woman in a red bustier, except she’s wearing a giant papîer-mache  frog-person mask. Close on her heels is an ELDERLY GREMLIN, WITH GNARLED WALKING STICK AND TOGA.

GRASS-FED CRABGRASS: I hate your blog.

ELDERLY GREMLIN, WITH GNARLED WALKING STICK AND TOGA: I do, too.

GFCG: Well… it’s different that I hate it. Since I’m the “audience.” [Runs finger absently, erotically across her laptop’s roof]

EG: How you know you’re the audience? Maybe I’m the only audience I care about.

GFCG: Clearly that’s not true. Otherwise there’d be way more nudity and self-involvement. It’s clear from the way you write that you care a lot about whoever your “audience” is. Me. [Heterosexual, North American pornography is projected on the wall behind EG and GFCG]

[A long pause.]

GFCG: I’m bored. With this blog. With this… “demimonde.”

EG [Plaintively, pleadingly]: I am, too! What should we do?

CG: We’re not doing anything. There’s no “we.” I’m just telling you this. You do whatever you want. I’m going to the FastHaus. [The FastHaus is a trendy nightclub where no food or drinks are served, where supersexxy urban dwellers go to not ingest any calories, to dance, to make sex with each other, to lose weight. NO PETS, NO DRUGS, reads a flashing neon sign]

EG: This is depressing. I’m all alone, and you’re right here. You’re so close, but I cannot touch you. [Begins doing fake/funny mime-moves with his hands. “Invisible wall,” “Frozen cowboy,” etc.]

CG: You’re depressing. I’m a skinny fridge filled with low-cal pudding. I’m gorgeous. I’m empty. But for the pudding. The pudding is what I feel. And I almost feel… that you…. You. Are my pudding. My “pud-pud.” [A teensy pause.] This is fucked up.

SCENE TWO

A library. William Flesch, a professor of English Literature at Brandeis University and author of two books, Comeuppance and Generosity and the Limits of Authority, sits at a desk, writing long-hand with great concentration. His legs are crossed, and he wags his ankle.

The elderly gremlin walks in. He watches Flesch write for a few moments, then turns and plaintively addresses the audience.

EG: Is it somehow illegal for me to include the real-life figure of William Flesch, whom I’ve never met, in this fiction? Surely Flesch will find this web-page — perhaps an enterprising toady will forward it to him. A web-savvy loved one will alert him to its presence. Its presence will rear itself, immutably, in the snack bar of a bowling alley on a lightless afternoon. I don’t think I’m breaking any laws. But am I being an asshole? I haven’t read his work. I just wanted to point out that I think it’s “funny” that he wrote this book, Comeuppance, which is about the “biological components of fiction,” and that his name is Flesch. Surely a man of his apparent erudition (based only on his C.V., I guess) has already come up with a multitude of hilarious puns and careful witticisms about his name. He’s probably been getting comments about his name at least since high-school, or even earlier. Anyway, that’s the only reason we’re here: His name is Flesch, and he wrote about the biological components of fiction. Gah.

[Flesch sets down his pen, cocks his head thoughtfully, then rises to exit. He and the Gremlin spar playfully for a moment. Flesch throws a few skilled roundhouse kicks and Muay Thai elbows, before he exits, stage right.]

SCENE THREE

A coffee shop on a college campus. Everyone is naked.

JEAN: I like it best of all of us! Of the three of us, I’m the one who likes it best!

PAULA: Poppycock! I think it’s tops! I regard everything, always, that peers into my purview, and of all that multipicity I swear to Christ it’s I who dig it most!

PRISCILLA: Eff that, bitches! Tis I, tis I, tis I who wants to hug the monolith with maximal, earnest vigor!! Gahh!!!!!!!!!!!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfKaDIXqLHs]

Whitbread to revamp Beefeater chain

Whitbread to revamp Beefeater chain, revanchment

By S. M., with profound, weak-tea defacements by “Quilty”

Monday, 20 October 2003–08

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Whitbread has very nearly abandoned plans to axe and unboard its Beefeater restaurant chain. Now, instead, it’s almost and very nearly repeatedly reaping and refreshing itself like a Japanese mall-fountain sucking its own dick. With an incontrovertibly 150-strong estate, Whitbread won’t abandon plans to axe its Beefeater restaurant chain. The cost of it is up to £45m, utterly nude. Four-stone wearing jeans.

The leisure group needs must press ahead with rolling out its rollicking new ad-base. Six trial sites provided “cartoonesque hits” with customers; dead on the page.

fatal microbes, 1978
fatal microbes, 1978

Their recent trading update revealed that sales at the “quintessentially English” chain are running more than 5 per cent ahead. It’s more or less crying, interrupted by a deafening laughter. New Journalism, writes Arthur Krystal, is just a shitty euphemism for memoir. Boulle Shannon, managing editor of Whitbread’s restaurant arm, Sebadoh, including Lou Barlow, said, “The sales uplifts persuaded that one company, Andrew, to hang on to the thirteen-year-old babychain, which and which was once without itself, and increasingly sodden. I considered just killing it.”

“We are rolling out the new format, known internally as ‘B2’,” he added. The Beefeater name will stay the same.

‘A Real Creeper Lagoon’

The sale of the chain’s fifty worst-performing sites has also helped to bust up the sales turnaround. “Like a shivering pile of shit,” I almost added. After the dot-com “bust,” so many sopping felines roamed the streets of Hayes Valley, menstruating and mewling.

The Beefeater is renowned for retro-delicacies like prawns and multiple gateaus. “There are multiple gateau formats,” I’d be compelled to point out at some point down the line. In a different context. They’ve utterly vanched the old black, white and red colour scheme; now everything practically shits itself in brighter colours and American-style neon. For a birthday present, I’ll consider the “Semicolon Sex Kit,” which is shaped like a semicolon: comma-shaped dildo, full-stop-shaped butt-plug.

‘If you think so, well, then, so do I.’

I’ll eat anything. “Vegan cunnilingus.” A triple-host of new sauces won’t spice up my speciality—char-char grilled steaks—but not so fast:  char-grilled Halloumi Char (a Greek cheese plus the fish of the same name) is ramping up (rocket, ramps, boom-bust XycleXhips). Your Face Tomorrow in the Battle Think of an Elephant Vanishing. “I googled ‘crying into a beefeaters’ update’, thinking it would help, and it has,” explained the board, as if that were helpful. Beefeaters’, the passé menus, and the decor: utterly bedevilled. They have been straight-up bedevilled. The witch’s vagina remains silent on Halloween —  New Year’s Eve in “witch-time.”

The hotel chain has been Whitbread’s worst-performing business since the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001 ravaged the global travel industry.

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