KMUD’s new General Manager

January 30, 2011 in Uncategorized | Tags: KMUD

I hadn’t heard the news, but I just read it over at Tom Seabourn’s blog. Her name is Sarah Reid and she used to run the production department at Bicoastal Media.

Welcome Sarah and good luck!

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January 30, 2011 at 6:05 pm

Anonymous

WTF?

January 30, 2011 at 7:35 pm

skippy

General Manager Sarah Reid, KMUD News Coordinator Terri Klemiston, and the KMUD staff are going places!

Skippy’s report:

Ms. Reid, Ms. Klemiston, lots of KMUD staff (and yours truly, humble skippy) attended the 7-station Community Radio Day workshop coordinated by Access Humboldt on Saturday. They have big plans, need volunteers, and are building community in a significant way.

Access Humboldt and the brilliant Sean McLaughlin, (Charles Douglas, Andrew McFarland and fellow staff), sponsored Community Radio Day at their very sweet and first rate Eureka High School studio, classroom, and theater. They got it going on, folks. $5 got you a fast moving and stimulating 5 hour conference, workshop, collaboration, even snacks; the $25 (an ongoing bargain, IMO) enrollment allows use of Access Humboldt’s space, training, and stellar equipment for a year). Yours truly was impressed.

Reps from KHSU, KHUM, KMUD, Hoopa’s KIDE, Blue Ox School, 2 anonymous pirate stations (one far beyond ‘pirate’– more like guerrilla radio on wheels), and Patrick Cleary formed the informational and entertaining Q and A panel addressing plans– and how others can help. The keynote speaker, Gavin Dahl, related serious national issues affecting the future of radio, the Local Community Radio Act, and investigative news reporting. It looks bleak and beleaguered nationally but far stronger locally given our independent Humboldt spirit, values, and far-flung stations, Mr. Gavin noted. KMUD is a large part of this direction.

The latter part of the day split into two workshops: strategic planning and collaboration with the (mostly commercial free) radio organizations and Sarah; KMUD’s journalistic techniques, ethics, interviewing and hands-on practice using their Marantz PMD660 audio recorders taught by Sarah’s companera, the most capable, smart, and livewire news coordinator of KMUD, Ms. Terri Klemetson— who completely rocked in her vigorous and articulate presentation. KMUD staff were there, en masse, seeking volunteers to obtain news and interviews for expanded coverage of Northern Humboldt. There’s also other avenues for volunteer participation to with both KMUD and the other stations.

An exciting workshop and day– a unique collaborative and strategic planning with KMUD, Sarah, and our fellow local stations coordinated by Access Humboldt will certainly have an impact for the future. KMUD led the way. Sarah has a great deal of experience ranging from Bicoastal Media to our PBS station, KEET-TV. Consider volunteering or joining with KMUD and the above organizations if interested; they welcome everyone, were nice and accomodating in their outreach efforts, and offer an invaluable learning experience with immediate immersion. Our strength is more in our partnership than our divide.

KMUD, Sarah Reid, Terri Klemeston, Simon, Behr, its staff, the other stations represented– and those in attendance building our community… absolutely ROCKED.

Welcome Sarah Reid, thank you for representing… and best wishes for the future.

peace,… skips

January 30, 2011 at 9:21 pm

Ed Denson

Welcome, Sarah. Hope you enjoy managing KMUD. Best wishes for your success.

February 1, 2011 at 4:07 pm

Sarah Reid

Thanks for the wishes! KMUD is a great station with a wonderful staff, board and group of volunteers. I am honored and excited to be a part of it!

May 22, 2011 at 10:19 am

anon

Hello and welcome to the KMUD local news; nothing happened today so we’re going to manufacture some fluff out of some other fluff and call it news…or what the fuck I’m outta here! Jordon Jumpsnot, you’re here all the time, take it away, play us some opera music or something, got any more Maria Callas fergawdsake?
Wait! This just in! Someone got busted for weed! Sadly his car was pulled over in Indiana and he is in deep shit. Lets turn to one of our odd group of citizen correspondents who for some reason are looking for a career in purveying the chimes of tedium.
“Yes a guy got busted in Indiana and also there’s a convoy heading West on Spiceland Road right now to Your House. You will hear a knock on your door in about Ten Minutes. You better not answer it without your Medicine Card. Things were not always like this, back in the 80’s there were 24-hour fertilizer stores, ah yes the go-go 80’s–those were the daze! In other news that poor guy is still stuck in an Indiana Jail; we will try to get a hold of him and ask him how he feels Also the Convoy is nearing Your House! And that’s the real weed news, back to you Cynthia.”
Thank you Debbie or Tommy or whomever the fuck likes to help us put out this bullshit. In other news lets go back to the landslide and see how many ways we can ask how does that make you feel to have that slide come down on your driveway. Talk about THAT sucka!
Now on to the celebration of National Fertilizer Store Week that we’ve just been informed is actually California Fertilizer Store week, oh wait, this just in, its actually Humboldt Fertilizer Store Week.
Now Jordon Jumpsnot is signaling us with the cut throat–I think he wants to put on some Maria Callas music from 1954. But Jordon! The news isn’t over yet! Your attempt at world domination of KMUD airwaves will have to wait! Ahh! This just in: Jordon Jumpsnot has taken over the station, oh wait, no, he is just presenting the News Department with an award proclaiming this National State County SoHum week of appreciation to US, the News Department, that we actually do this boring job producing this boring news! What say ye Jordon?
“I hope you at least get laid behind this, and Go Celtics!”
Thank you Jordan and good night from behind the make work curtain.
Now on to Jake Pickernose with another boring political comment.

May 24, 2011 at 3:39 pm

anon

Please Eat Gluten
Hey everybody! Eat your Glutens! I know some of you, mostly women, have stopped eating gluten because you heard somewhere that it was bad for you; maybe a neighbor told you, or a friend, and its spread so far that you can now purchase just about any non-gluten product. Look, you’re sick, you’re sad, you’re lonely, you’re fat, you’re unfulfilled but why blame the glutens? Oh, you think you have an allergy? Who told you that? Some unlicensed pseudo-doctor who gets some alternative degree, sets up shop, sells you a lot of supplements and tells you to stop eating wheat? (Did you know that there was a study recently published in the New York Times that found that of all the people who think they have allergies only 15% percent really do? But you don’t believe the New York Times do you? You don’t believe anything the government tells you, except for cell phones: it doesn’t matter how much of a granola hippie you are you will keep that radiation device plastered against your brain. Why do you make this exception? Because your cell phone will somehow bring you sex or money or happiness?)
The allergy scam, the gluten hoax, and all the other eating disorders are a symptom of an abundant society. We have so much that now we are going the other way and blaming food for our problems. Here’s the thing about food: eat healthy food, whole grains as much as possible, and as many fruits and vegetables as you can. Who knows, you might aspire to be one of the 14% of Americans who eat 5-6 servings of fruits and vegetables a day. (Don’t eat too much cake and ice cream and cheese and don’t eat out much too.)
And if you run into a starving African and offer him some food I would be very surprised if he turned it down because there was the evil gluten in it.

May 28, 2011 at 9:41 am

anon

The SoHum Hippie’s Guide To Coming In From The Cold

You’re sitting in your cabin 60 pounds overweight on a rutted dirt road out in the mountains stoned before breakfast without even a dog to keep you company. You have 200 channels but nothing’s on. You have Charley Sheen on the Internet and plenty of weed. People used to come by and take it but they’ve stopped coming. You wonder if its time to go to town and stand in front of the Woodrose with a bud in your pocket hoping to make a connection.
You have can beans and ramen noodles and mice. You sometimes are too stoned to brush your teeth before going to bed and never heard of brushing them in the morning, much less the tongue. Your fantasies are full of your neighbors wives and daughters and anything that moves. You are stuck, stuck in the middle of nowhere with no social skills, a soggy joint permanently lodged in the corner of your mouth, and a truck that seems to need a jump every week. Sometimes you stand behind the trees with your jumper cables and leap out when you hear a car approaching.
You have finally figured out that no one cares, or at least they’re not showing it, and when you get to town you see this book in a small stack next to the videos at Shop Smart. You buy it, take it home, and see yourself in the pages. Still no one cares but now you have a guide to follow to attempt to bring some clarity or sanity to your situation. You might have to get a job or start a business and there will be a lot of other clueless hippies wandering the streets of Garberville and Willits wondering what to do.

May 30, 2011 at 11:01 am

anon

The Sohum Hippie’s Guide To Coming In From The Cold, Ch2

You’re up on your mountain, your palace of wet dreams, you have everything you need except someone to share it with. Your loneliness is excruciating–if you had a gun you might have ended it long ago, whenever you walk across bridges you think about jumping. Of course you never do because you have so much! You have a fat wad–you could go to Istanbul manana, sit in a cafe and drink Peets coffee. You think your life might be a waste, your houses lie empty across the land, your flaky empire is rotting from within.
You pick up This Book that you bought in town the other day, then drove home, the drive of shame, leaving the bright lights of Redway behind, thinking of the smile and eyes of the Hippie Woman you just met by chance but didn’t get her number or give her yours. You drove along The Eel, Redwood Creek, The Mattole, deeper into the hills to your refuge where no one will bother you, no one can find you, where you are safe, alone. You open to Chapter 3: How To Get A Date. Yes! This book is speaking to YOU!

June 2, 2011 at 8:41 am

anon

Hispanic Grow
Alphonso Jimenez walked down the trail from the highway, it was three miles in to el Jardin. On his slouching shoulders was a canvas backpack with supplies–he had gone to the salsa dance in Fortuna against strict orders from El Jefe to avoid unnecessary contact with the locals. He had met a woman there, a lively and attractive gringa who could speak a little Spanish–he fondled the paper in his pocket her number was written on. As he switchbacked up and down the narrow trail over streams and fallen trees he thought about what he’d do with his pay once the crop was in and his family in San Luis Potosi was safe again. He had planned to build a little house on a scrap of land back home…but this woman…this gringa…
The trail ended by a creek; Alphonso splashed along the water jumping from stone to stone to another trail camo’d by a pile of driftwood sticks–he cleared a way then jumbled the sticks back in place . There was still a long way to go, another mile or two up then down the last mountain, and then a longer time till fall came and the crop could be harvested, if it could be harvested, if it made it through.
He remembered what the Jefe had said last Spring in Mexico when his men had plucked Alphonso from his goat herd on The Lucero in Catorce, a good training for this mountain hiking. “We have three Hispanic Grows going in this section of Humboldt and Trinity, if even just one survives the gringo’s helicopters there will be enough pay for you to build a little place back home in Matehuala.”
“But boss,” Alphonso had said. “Why you call it “Hispanic Grow”? That’s what the gringos call it but…”
“Ha! Ha!” El Jefe cut him off. “I like the sound of that! Hispanic Grow! Lets just say HG or would you prefer el Jardin?”
“Si, don Jefe, el Jardin.”
He reached the clearing by the alder grove–no one approached him as he neared the campsite where the others were heating up tortillas on the comal.
Alphonso was furious. “Hey! Where’s the watchman? Where’s the guard? Anyone could walk in here!”
“Hey Jefe,” Alcides said. Here Alphonso was the boss. “If anyone comes they’ll come by air. Remember last year?”
The helicopters had descended and harvested for them at el Jardin down in Mendocino, nice of them. It was all they could do to scramble out of there before being apprehended. But he was working again, he had to get paid, they all did, though little compared to what the Jefe would make but the was the way of the world–it wasn’t a bad job out here in nature.
As dusk fell Alphonso walked through the terraces of mota growing in the hacked out forest. The plants were budding, even sparkling a little. Had they gotten all the males out? There had been thousands and now the females bloomed three to a hole. He had lost count but there were something like 7000 plants in this plantation. It was late August and the harvest was closing in.
He fingered the scrap of paper in his pocket and thought about Gwennie and the next trip to town…

June 4, 2011 at 9:52 am

anon

GHOSTS!
The fact that all the people in Ray Oakes’ recent question man in the Independent say they believe in ghosts does not bode well for the republic. You thought the birthers and the truthers were a little, ah, extreme? How about the chemtrail, anti-gluten, astrology, ED, kombucha, and now ghost crowd? In other words there’s wackos on all sides now, if not the whole nation, and lets not even bring up god, please.
What is it? Why do people latch on to unproven theories and fads? People are afraid and will reach out for any supplement to cure their imaginary allergies, or other symptoms of life.
You are dying, you’re gonna die–eat your veggies…

June 6, 2011 at 9:07 am

anon

Alderpoint Memories
Ah came from Wapanuka, Oklahoma and ran the Riverview Inn in Alderpoint, California in the very early 70’s. To control the drunken redneck crowd ah had a gun behind the bar and, well, ah thought ah was pretty clever ‘cos ah loaded it up alternating blanks with real bullets. That’s right: one bullet, one blank and so on.
Anyway one night there was another big fight so ah took the gun out and fired a real round into the ceiling. Then I turned the gun to the scuffle and fired a blank and, well, that blank hit this chick in the left tit and she set a howling and all hell broke loose: those angry drunk Alderpoint rednecks chased me out of the bar and trashed the place completely.
And that was the end of the Riverview Inn–ah went back to Wapanuka promptly.

June 25, 2011 at 11:53 am

anon

Mexico Roadblock
I still don’t know why I blew through that last checkpoint outside Mazatlan on my last drive North up through Mexico even though the police went out in the middle of the road with his gun motioning me to stop. I exited onto the autopista (superhighway) and sure enough soon noticed flashing red and blue lights in my rear view mirror. I found the film can with the last half joint in it, thought about throwing it out the window, then stashed it into my toiletries bag instead of the usual secure spot deep within a smattering of coffee grounds and banana peels in a rotten milk box in my litter bag on the floor of the passenger seat.
I played dumb gringo (you’re probably thinking now that’s easy) as they went through my stuff; soon I saw the film can in one of the policeman’s hand, another had found the Mexican match box with the joint residue.
“Marijuana!” the English-speaking cop said triumphantly with a big smile. “You’re in big trouble now!” He took out his handcuffs while I staggered a little within, then began to negotiate.
“Can’t I pay a fine?” I asked.
“Here?” the cop asked. He handed me back my drivers license. “How much you got?”
I opened my wallet and offered 200$USD.
“Look! 200$ he has!” the policeman said with a laugh. “How about three?”
I looked in my wallet and found two 50s to go along with the two Franklins. “Oh, one for each?” I said, referring to the other two cops who’d arrived in the second vehicle.
“Yeah,” said the cop.
I paid the 300$ just as one of the cops discovered my new, unused tennis shoes. “Can I buy these from you?” he asked.
I was ready to give him the damn shoes when a federal highway patrolman stopped by to see what was up with these state cops out on the autopista. Just before the fed rolled up in his black and white one state cop handed me back the film can; I considered tossing it immediately in the weeds but stashed it back in the car.
I told the cop 20$ for the shoes and we completed the transaction before the eyes of the Federale. I took the 200 pesos, looked at all four cops sandwiching me in, and asked if I could go. I pulled out still thinking I should ditch the joint out the window, then at the rest stop with the Federale parked nearby I thought about dumping it in the trash. Instead I took off, still feeling a little shocked and stopped under an autopista overpass. I re-rolled the joint, burned it up, and then rolled down the highway. I was finally clean in Mexico and vowed to get my life together.

July 12, 2011 at 11:30 am

anon

Country Living
I suppose I was the classic dirty hippie living in a tiny cabin in the woods with no indoor plumbing or shower but no one ever said I stunk–hmm, maybe they did too! When the little platform shitter a ways down the hill got full I took a post hole digger, found a random spot, and dug a hole a couple feet deep–that would last for weeks; when it was full I’d dig another. And another.
There was a more established neighbor a mile away, a well-liked community-minded woman who actually had a real bathroom! She put a little can by the shower with “25 cents” pasted on it–I believe it went up to 50 cents later for her shower-less neighbors.
That can belongs in the “museum!”

July 12, 2011 at 12:04 pm

anon

Back To The Land
Life used to be really simple living in a small cabin in the hills, another middle class white kid who moved to the country and didn’t really know what he was doing. I never went to the dump, didn’t have any garbage! Yeah, the original ecologists: if you don’t have money you don’t make trash. That still blows my mind: I didn’t have garbage! And no running water either so I decided to do something about that and it brings to mind this episode.
The first year on the mountain I hauled gallon glass jugs up the hill, maybe five gallons twice a week up from the county road. I didn’t pay rent and had never met the owner of the land. I had helped a friend move out because this other guy had promised the owner some improvements if he’d let him move in. Then the new guy changed his mind so I wrote the owner a one sentence letter telling him that I had moved in. I never saw him in the three years I lived up there doing whatever I wanted on his land–that’s just how things were back then.
I went back home during the winter and came back the next Spring with a $300 Dodge Dart stationwagon. The first time I drove up that steep dirt road with a 55gallon barrel of water in the back there were lots of other things in the car wedging in the barrel. At the top of the road I ran the water into another barrel above the cabin. A black plastic line snaked to a faucet over the little sink.
The next time I hauled a barrel up the hill I thought gee I don’t remember doing anything special to secure the barrel; I filled that sucker up at a nearby spring and headed up the mountain. When I got to the top the barrel burst out of the back of the car smashing the window and hurtled down the hill–440 pounds of out of control water! If it had hit the cabin there would have been two holes in it.
Live and learn/ What a hill muffin.
(After that misadventure I started securing the barrel with an old tire; the next year I got a truck and could haul two barrels–I was on my way!)

July 13, 2011 at 10:58 am

anon

The Dating Game
What’s it take to meet a woman these days? I don’t know what you do but I put a personal ad on Craigslist. Whenever I do that I invariably get 20-30 robo-hookers and one real person. Of course its easy to spot the bots–they never make any reference to anything in your ad. I don’t know exactly how the robo-scammers operate but I assume they’re trying to steal money or sell sex or something.
The real woman emailed me for a few days then disappeared, didn’t answer my last email. What to do? I waited. After a week I sent her another suggesting we have a coffee or walk on the beach and beat each other over the heads about our childhoods. ((Both of our therapists had suggested we investigate our childhoods and both of us were resisting.) I also had won tickets to a concert from a radio promo and I invited her to the show. She said she already had a ticket but would love to meet me after the show.
I agonized over this for days leading up to the weekend: did I really want to drive 100 miles to try to see this fascinating woman for a few minutes after the show or who knows what? And should I bring a friend for my other ticket? What if something clicked with the woman? Could I graciously dump the friend somehow? But I wanted to have a guaranteed good time and that meant bringing the friend along to the CL hookup, even though it was fraught with peril as he is more funny, smart, and entertaining than me, and could conceivably steal the girl! But that was a chance I decided to take.

July 25, 2011 at 11:21 am

anon

to err is human…to grovel divine
i am stressed: physically, mentally, and emotionally. i am swamped, left hi and dry, and the leaf hoppers are taking over again, dealing their yellow death to the greenery, making me think why am i not just flying off to Delhi, with you…i’m falling apart honey but before i go down i want to try once again to get you back.
ok, we needed a break, but three weeks is long enough; why don’t you just come back and lets clean things up, like nothing happened–your bras are still hanging off the door handles in the barn, shouldn’t that give me hope? your shovel is still in the yard and on the back porch are your boots and work clothes getting destroyed by the summer sun, just where you left them.
you have to understand that i wasn’t saying you were dishonest when i told you you lied all the time during our heated discussion the other day as you were chopping up the chicken for the soup. that was the day i was asking all my friends the question:”if your LIFE depended on my happiness what would you do?” why do my other friends just laugh at me but you walk out the door and don’t come back?
you now say you don’t want to work for me anymore but just want to be friends. if i didn’t have the stress and work of this uncompleted project to deal with i could relax and think about ways to hang out with you, share life, or whatever your definition of friendship is, but honestly all i can think is i’m overwhelmed with work and i need your help. i really need you back on the clutter confrontation crew helping doing home makeovers of total disaster houses–who else will help me take everything out of Josie’s deplorable cabin?
if i had known how quickly downhill my life would fall in a month without your help cleaning, gardening, and cooking healthy vegetable chicken soups i would have left you out of the latest chapter of my flailing happiness project. maybe you were tired of me but we were getting along well i thought.
our misunderstanding might be grounded in definition, for example: you say you hardly go out, meaning just a couple times a week; to me that’s a lot…and i just realized that i am a liar too because i told a guy i’d call him over two weeks ago and i didn’t! i know its just one little prevarication but still…
jeez, this is like a relationship gone bad: one unfriendly look at your lover and its over…
if this is really over i’ll tell you once again what you probably already know: you were great, a good worker, energetic and willing, a smiling attitude–i always liked seeing you walk through the door.
so what do i do now? hit bottom? am i there yet?
yes you have a lot of pride…but is it false pride if no one was disrespecting you? that you got that wrong?
i don’t know what else i can say–does any of this make sense? am i missing something, besides you?

March 8, 2012 at 7:30 pm

anon

(The inside story of Saturday’s mini home invasion in our little town)

This Little Town
I had just gotten done with an oatmeal bath and was lying naked on my bed putting coconut oil all over me when I heard my gate open, then the back door, and then heavy footsteps through the house. I called out my friend’s name who will usually call first or at least announce himself at the door. Into my bedroom bounded a demon: he was a shirtless man in his twenties, very buff with a shaven head.
“Do you have a gun?!” he screamed. “I want a gun to kill myself!”
“I don’t have one!” I shouted back. He left the room, I leaped up, and the coconut oil went flying. I went to the bedroom door and saw him in the kitchen.
” Get out of here! Get out of here!” I yelled.
He grabbed the biggest knife off the counter, went out the door, and started down the road toward my neighbor’s house. I went for the phone, slipped on the coconut oil, and landed hard on my elbow and knee. I called my neighbor.
“There’s a maniac coming your way! Lock your door! Call J, I’ll call P!”
I phoned 911 and described the madman that was on the loose in our neighborhood. I heard shouts from down the hill–he had barged into the neighbor’s house again asking for a gun. I heard shouts back and forth–the demon went on to another neighbor and tried to break her gate down. A pickup truck came down the road and I flagged it down; it was a member of the local volunteer fire department who had heard the call on the scanner. I saw the demon heading back up the hill just as my friend pulled up from the other direction.
He got out of the car and I screamed at him. ” Get over here, now! There’s a maniac coming up the hill! Here! Come here now!” For some reason my friend went back to his car for a moment and then started over when the guy passed by. Now he was waving a hundred dollar bill.
“I’ll give you 100 dollars for a drink!” He said. There were no takers.
The demon maniac continued up the road with C and the fireman walking behind at a cautious distance. The CHP flew down the main road missing the little lane and 911 was called again. When he got up to the main road the CHP was coming back up the hill and another was coming down, they both stopped. The cop got out of his cruiser and commanded the demon maniac madman drugged-out parolee to stop. He reluctantly did then when the cop called out for him to get down on his knees and put his hands on his head. He did that but when the cop told him to get down on his stomach he refused. The cop kept telling him to get down on his stomach as he approached the neighborhood marauder brandishing a gun or a tazer or something; he seemed to be holding a shield of some sort.
“Shoot me! Kill me!” The demon screeched. “Kill me!”
The two CHP approached until they joined up by the guy, still commanding that he get down on his stomach. He still refused and by now two more CHP had pulled up as the call had gone out during a shift change. All four cops when down on him to subdue him and they hog-tied him by the side of the road.
This little town? Yikes!

March 13, 2012 at 1:18 pm

anon

Column Wars
When I saw Ray Oakes stumble over the curb and fall on his face the other day I thought man that guy must have a lot on his mind. And then I thought maybe I could write a column. Some women helped Ray up and on he went in his dangerous sandals to his latest mission. I’m not sure how many locals read Ray’s weekly screeds but what a high it must be to have a thousand people taking your columns home with them. There you are, your words and stories, your visceral ramblings living for a few days to a week in someone’s tawdry mouse-infested crack shack or or among the modern facilities possessed my real estate agents and their ilk.
That’s the story in the hills I think: do you have an out house or a flush toilet? That’s the story I wish Ray would tell, descriptions of mountain life in his little cabin in the hills on his good and great friend Fred’s land these many decades. I used to tease Ray, joke that I was going to ambush him one day with a video camera, an expose on the One True Ray. Don’t get me wrong I love the dude and he probably is the most prolific writer in the area–can you imagine putting it out there weekly? I got to know Ray some more in the 90’s when he was friends with the crew at the Redwood record and infatuated with Deb who was infatuated with Owl who was infatuated with the gal with the tail. I somehow picked up a girlfriend there and at her little parties Ray would get really drunk and always refused the couch and drove home. (Unless he parked half a block away under the big trees outside Miranda and slept it off–most things aren’t what they seem.)
Yes, you can take the Indy home and won’t be offended–Ray is not confrontational or rude, unlike some people. If you asked Ray to write something controversial or rude he would probably be up to the task for he is a very creative and intelligent guy, does tend to ramble on but what the hell. I really didn’t plan on making him the subject of my first column but he’s the tall lean elephant in the room and, okay, that’s a non sequitor and now I’m rambling, so you see, that’s life.
I am going to try to write this weekly column and though I might be fit only for Savage Henry I will try to sublimate my inner asshole, my innate crudeness and see if there’s a place for me in your grimy yurts in Ettersburg, modern kitchens on Maple Lane, and all the dirt roads in between.

March 13, 2012 at 1:57 pm

suzy blah blah

-like

March 13, 2012 at 10:14 pm

anon

Paul Modic relayed the Mexican shoe bribe story at a variety show once and he wrote to the AVA about the suicide guy. Is that you? The lonely bitter hatred sounds about right. Please don’t try to be a columnist, PS I never read Ray’s pieces because the few I did read were boring and self referencing, with no profound thought, kind of like your writing.

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