Aerial View was WFMU’s first regularly-scheduled phone-in talk show. Hosted by Chris T. and on the air since 1989, the show features topical conversation, interviews and many trips down the rabbit hole. Until further notice, Aerial View is only available as a podcast, available every Tuesday morning. Subscribe to the newsletter “See You Next Tuesday!” and find tons of archives at aerialview.me. (Visit homepage.)

March 3, 2015: Uncomfortably Numb

View this in your browser Tonight: Uncomfortably Numb Admit it: you go around most times feeling numb to it all. And that's not (entirely) due to the cold. No, the numbness you feel is mostly existential. The numbness is from the endless running of the race called 'rat", from the unrelenting nature of life, from the need to be on guard and be watchful for threats. It all comes at you so fast and you spend so many hours going around on the wheel that you long for some respite, to jump off to.... what?  You're not comfortable with the numbness but you're also not sure how to end your torpor. You note all the negative emotions coursing through you and wonder if they mean it's not in your nature to be upbeat. You try to observe the emotions and sort out the information they provide. You hope you don't act on the wrong ones and suffer unwanted consequences. You wonder if you'd be more popular if you could be wholeheartedly enthusiastic about something again. Then you find yourself sneering at the concept of "popularity". Isn't popularity for shallow people? For people who actually care what others think of them? Isn't that the path to the worst of all possible sins, pandering? Tonight, before the madness that is the WFMU Marathon (see below) we stop the wheel just long enough to have a conversation about things that matter, like our desire for connection, our longing to be understood, the need to move beyond triviality ("white & gold or blue & black?") to something meaningful. To something inspiring. Tonight, we take stock. Tonight, we FEEL, dammit! Call 201-209-WFMU and jar me from my numbness. Last Week 1: Melrose Trading Post Redux Last week's show was recorded "live" at the Melrose Trading Post at Fairfax and Melrose Avenues in Hollywood, California. It's a great little flea market with a good mix of old and new, junk and couture, good food and great people watching. It's where, in 2008, my wife Janet and I met long-time favorite Michael Des Barres (above) of To Sir With Love, the Led Zeppelin Swan Song label-mate band Detective, and that WKRP in Cincinnati Hoodlum Rock episode where he played Sir Charles "Dog" Weatherbee, leader of the band Scum Of The Earth. The flea market is also a fundraiser for the Fairfax High School sports programs, so be an athletic supporter and GO if you're ever in the area! Here are some playlist comments: Always love the tours Chris T. The fruit bats freak me out a little bit. Never wanted to go to LA until now. Good show. I go to farm auctions and women always buy old handsaws to paint a bad scene on and then varnish. Sad end for a noble hand tool. You guys have no idea how many pieces of wood with random junk stuck on them are sold for like $40 - $70 a pop at local flea markets in the US. Listen on AudioBoom Last Week 2: Chris T. on Morricone Island! Last week I also filled in for Devon on Morricone Island.  There was a little Twin Peaks tribute with music from Angelo Badalementi and work from some of my favorite soundtrack composers, including Bernard Hermann, Wendy Carlos, Carter Burwell and Curtis Mayfield, among others. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to post it as its own show, so you'll just have to hear it at the end of the Aerial View archive. I hope to separate it out at a future date. Listen to this show:  Pop-up player! One Man's Junk This is an excerpt from a much longer work. THE FIRST THERMOS Whenever I scan up or down the corridor that is my four-room railroad apartment I see a pigsty. It’s actually not. But all I see is disorganization, crap of one kind or another laying about, things I should’ve thrown out YEARS ago. Like these six-inch pieces of L-shaped Plexiglas. WHERE did I get them and WHY do I have fifty? Or this rooftop T.V. antenna mount – I have cable. And those TWO broken thermoses.   One was given to me by my father when I was sixteen, starting my first job at a Woolworth’s on Sunrise Highway. I was a stock boy, mopping up broken bottles of spaghetti sauce in the food section, stuffing garbage into the compactor, cardboard into the incinerator, unloading trucks, filling shelves - doing anything asked of me.   Most of my time is spent hiding in the bathroom, reading Guitar Player.   I’d bring the thermos with me, into the stall, pour myself a cup of whatever is inside and spread the magazine out on my lap. Being a Gearhead, I’d read the ads first. I could usually pass a peaceful half hour of new axes, stomp boxes, multi-tracks, etc., before my crew-topped manager, Mr. Jorgensen, would step into the bathroom and yell, “CARBONE!” He knew it’s where I hid. I’d stash the thermos in the lunchroom and go lick more boots.   This particular thermos is a Dunn-Rite Model 36-T. The “36” refers to number of ounces, the “T” to the tartan pattern. I researched all this when I tried to find a replacement for the vacuum bottle (model #44-36). The Model 36T  – introduced in mid-1955 – remained basically unchanged until it was discontinued at the end of 1970. The original model featured a cork stopper. Mine has the much-improved screw-on top, made standard in 1962.   At one time, the Dunn-Rite Manufacturing Company had the largest workforce on the west side of Chicago, employing over five hundred people in the production of lunch boxes, thermoses and large-caliber shell-casings for the United States government. When the Vietnam War began in earnest, the company was split in two. The military-contracting arm  - Dunn-Rite U.S. Manufacturing – went out of business along with Dunn-Rite proper, in 1971 - due to a crippling embezzelment scheme initiated by Arthur Dunn the III, chief financial officer.   My Model 36-T sat in Willard’s Army Surplus seven years until my father came along. I still remember the day he gave it to me: August 16, 1977. The day Elvis died. I didn’t give two shits about Elvis in ‘77. I cared deeply about Aerosmith, Alice Cooper, The Beatles , ELP, Led Zeppelin, Queen, The Rolling Stones, Yes and The Who. Classic Rock before the term was coined. I played guitar in a cover band – Cobra – and we featured songs by all those acts. My father hated rock and roll and despised Elvis. He listened to Bing Crosby, Lou Monte, Mario Lanza: “Real singers!”   I was surprised to see his Mustang convertible out front when I got home from rehearsal. He divorced my mother three years earlier and came around at Christmas and maybe four other times during the year. When he saw me with my guitar case he said, “Did you hear about Elvis Presley?”   “What about him?” I say, picturing Elvis in Jailhouse Rock..   “He’s dead.” my father answers, handing me a gift-wrapped box. “Drugs.”   I didn’t know what to make of the Elvis news. I knew my father hates drugs and anyone who does them. The summer I was twelve I stayed with him in Scarsdale and he refused to let me watch Yellow Submarine on TV. “You know what a yellow submarine is, don’t you?” he said, as I whined for channel five. I’d read one of the Beatles – probably John – saying the Yellow Submarine represented “the toilet in which we all live,” or some such shit. I knew Dad wouldn’t go for that. Feebly, I explained, “I just like the songs. And it’s a cartoon.”   “Well you won’t be watching it here. Because ‘Yellow Submarine’ is slang for drugs, for pills. And I won’t have any drug movies in my house.” End of discussion. And now drugs had killed Elvis. As I tore into the box I couldn’t tell if my dad was happy about that or the look on my face when I pulled the thermos out. I must’ve registered complete shock. The damn thing was two feel tall! It was something an adult carries. All the previous thermoses I’d owned came decorated with Bugs Bunny, Tweety & Sylvester, Snoopy, Evel Knievel: cartoon characters or the stars of one highly-licensed hot TV show or other. This one was lithographed a tasteful tartan plaid. Those other themoses clipped inside a matching lunch box. But this one - it didn’t hitch rides. It’s substantial. It says, “I’ll keep you nourished all day long”. And it does, toting two quarts of the day’s fuel: coffee, tea, juice, soup, chili or stew.   It probably saved my life.   How do I repay it? Fifteen years ago I’d just moved to New Jersey and was supporting myself conducting phone surveys for the bullshit factory American Polls. It was a sunny July day and I thought I’d take my thermos and eat al fresco, at a table we’d set up near a small knot of maple trees out back.   I’m stepping off the elevator when the sight of Cindy Winter, waiting in the lobby to go up, short-circuits my brain just long enough for me to WHACK my hand into the opening elevator door. My grip momentarily loosened by the mere nearness of Cindy, the thermos drops, tips on its side and rolls back into the elevator. I instantly spin around, thrust my arm in, stop the now-closing door and scramble inside. Cindy chirps, “Ooh!” Your thermos!”, and presses OPEN DOOR. The thermos rolls back and forth until I finally scoop it up. It SHUH-SHUSHES like maracas. “That’s too bad!” Cindy says, hearing the sound. It’s the only time we’ll ever speak.   I tried to locate a replacement for the broken inner vacuum bottle, to no avail. The company stopped making part number 44-V in 1971. I’ve carried that thermos with me to three different homes now, unable – unwilling – to throw it out. I never bought another thermos, thinking it somehow unfaithful. I tell myself, “Someday…” foreseeing a time when the “Tartan Tower” will once again sustain my life. That’s what I had in mind when I picked up the second one.   THE SECOND THERMOS   I was with Nora, at her cabin near Woodstock. We were in her glorious backyard, finishing our lunch. She jumped up, saying, “There’s a flea market today, at the synagogue!” I’m not sure if it’s paranoia from the pot we smoked prior to lunch but I grow deeply suspicious. Nora ordinarily doesn’t wait on me, toting food and drink as I lounge. Today, she’s fucking Hostess with the Mostess. Nora also doesn’t give a shit about flea markets.   “The synagogue?” I’ve been to church basement flea markets but never a synagogue. Being by nature compelled to root around in other people’s cast-offs, I can’t refuse. “Let’s go!” I say. We pile into her VW and drive ten minutes along a winding two-lane road. As she sings along with The Breeders, concentrating on the curves, I concentrate on hers. Nora is a big girl, five foot eleven, one hundred and thirty pounds, naturally busty, beautiful face, long black hair. She is – beyond doubt – the most attractive girlfriend I’ve ever had. Which is, of course, a dilemma for me.   I have a deep inferiority complex from growing up fat. Female friends praise my eyes, my face, my fucking eyelashes, tell me I’m handsome  – “A teddy bear…” – but this terrible self-image persists nonetheless. It’s gotten so bad I can’t bring myself to look in a mirror. I told my shrink, Barbara Kinter. She said, “So don’t look in the mirror.” But it tends to affect one’s self-esteem, not being able to face one’s self.   I do plan to lose weight (I’ve been planning since puberty). I know all the reasons why it’s a good idea. I’ll be healthier. I’ll look better. I’ll get more pussy. I just never seem to make the leap from thought to action. I don’t know why. That’s not true. Of course I know why: my death wish is too fucking strong, always has been. I try to “love myself” (“You can’t love others until you love yourself”) but it feels forced and I fail.   With the help of my family I grew up feeling like a useless lump of shit. So I’ve never really cared for myself. It’s only recently Dr. Kinter has taught me not to object to that feeling, to acknowledge it as just one of many. Like I told Nora, when she accused me (?!) of having a sense of entitlement: “Sometimes I feel like a worm, sometimes I feel like a king.”   “It’s the feelings you don’t want to have that come to rule you.” Dr. Kinter says.   But I can sure be one lazy, neurotic bastard. A lighter Victor wouldn’t have to work so hard. Or keep women laughing all the time, hoping they’ll overlook his fat gut. Or try ten times harder than the average man just to get laid.   As we race along in the bright May sunshine, I roll my tired tongue around inside my mouth, remembering last night. I know I’ll never be a great lover, what with my weight. But I like to think I have a Maytag mouth. I learned from a genuine lesbian who told me, “That’s very sensitive down there. Be gentle. Most men go at it like it’s steak.” She showed me how to tease, how to dive in and back off, how to get the thighs involved, etc. I’ve since gotten high marks for my technique.   But Nora! It took my right hand, buried to the wrist and my tongue going like hummingbird’s wings last night. That was after all the fucking we did. I’d arrived a half-hour previous. But it didn’t take much for me. To see Nora naked, have some friction  – that’s about it.   “TO BE A SUCCESS YOU MUST ACT LIKE A SUCCESS.”   I don’t know who said that first. Norman Vincent Peale? Anthony Robbins? Jesus? Liberace? I haven’t got a fucking clue. But Barbara Kinter said it the other day. I was lying on her couch, “beating up on myself”, talking about Nora, how much I still loved her, how I couldn’t measure up, etc., when she uttered that canard.   Or is it a maxim?   I tend to act like a failure. So I am. Why do I act like a failure? Many reasons. Children learn what they see. My parents were immense failures. It wasn’t necessarily their own fault though. Their parents were failures, too. There’s a long line of us, stretching all the way back to the old country. I know next to nothing about my people but am willing to bet both sides were stocked with failures. Sure, both clans got the bright idea to come to America, Land of Opportunity and all – but only to fail.   How should we measure failure? Here’s how I measure failure: my parents were always broke. At least they always complained about being broke. They had just enough to provide us with food, shelter and clothing, as they never minded pointing out: “What are you complaining about? Are you starving? Don’t you have a roof over your head and clothes on your back? “How’d ya like to go live in China, like those people do?”   Just once I wish I’d said, “Yes. I’d like that. I’d like to live in China.” Or, more to the point: “I feel you HATE me for being the reason you have to provide those things.” Maybe they could’ve explained that it wasn’t me or my brothers and sisters they hated, but the way things were set up, the trap they were in. But how could they articulate the central lie of their lives – the one about “class mobility” – when they weren’t equipped to spot a rigged game? After all, they were good Americans to whom failure is individual.   They might’ve also explained, “Sure, we hate you – but we love you, too.” Self-awareness was in short supply, though. If they had known enough to accept their hatred, to realize its source… I certainly didn’t know then that such hatred in a family is part of the package, natural and inevitable. I never got that far on the issue. I just hated them back.   It’s all those murderous impulses, denied.   I’m sure my mother and father wanted to give us a good life. I don’t think they set out to turn all their children into failures. They just didn’t know how to prepare us for the world or give us anything beyond the basics. Hallmark cards were how they expressed love. Consequently, my life has been characterized by a huge lack of interest in myself.   My shrink says, “You weren’t taught to value yourself. So how can you care for yourself?”  Unconsciously, my parents may have wanted me dead but the best they could do was turn me into a self-hating mess. They did the same to my brothers and sisters, so I try not to take it personally. We are all failing in some way.   My mediocrity, non-greatness, success at failure, can be laid squarely at the feet of my parents. I know it’s supposed to be terrible to say - but I BLAME THEM. I try to forgive them, too. But it’s so fucking hard. I know what they were up against. I just wish they could’ve cared for me more. Barbara Kinter says: “You’re not angry enough yet.” I usually get offended and yell, “What are you FUCKING CRAZY?! I’M VERY ANGRY!” Then she laughs and says, “Not angry enough to to be disloyal to your parents!”   That’s why SHE thinks I’m fucked up, mediocre. Because: “It’s your parents you’re actually angry at. But you protect them by being loyal to their vision of you as a failure. Parents are supposed to do only two things: tell their children they’re good and give them money. That means providing them a college education and helping them get settled in life. They acted in a very hateful way towards you!”   Some shit, huh? I can imagine you laughing at all this. Like we’re on Dr. Phil or something. But I tried Prozac. It takes all the joy and presses it down, then takes all the sorrow and presses it up. You end up with a thin mint of emotions and a life-long dependency on a pharmeceutical firm. So I went for the talking cure. What can’t be remembered can’t be left behind. I firmly believe the only way to stop suffering is purge the unconscious and put things into words.   The words I have for Nora? Master manipulator. There we are at the synagogue flea market, moving up and down the aisles, scanning tables full of junk, when she asks, “So how did it go with your interview?”   “Brooks Publishing? Not so good.” I answer. I pick up an old streamlined toaster. It looks nice but I’ve got one already. I put it down.   “What do you mean ‘not so good’?”   “I gave a very bad interview. I got a little miffed at the woman.” Off a swaying table piled high, I grab a Rheingold beer tray, flipping it over.   “Victor! You did not! Tell me you didn’t...” Nora grabs my arm. I drop the tray and it clangs on the floor. The gray-haired hippie woman behind the rickety table glares at me. I gingerly place the tray back on the pile. “Don’t grab my arm like that!”   “Victor, tell me you didn’t get angry at the woman giving the interview.”   “I did. I was very upset and she kept asking me the same thing over and over.”   “What was that?”   “She kept asking me what I thought I had to contribute. We’re talking about a three-month pregnancy leave position here. It’s not like they’re looking to hire me. As soon as that woman returns, she takes back her job and I’m on the street again.”   “You don’t know that... Maybe they would’ve hired you full-time.” Nora reaches for a thermos. It looks like the Tartan Tower but is bare aluminum. “So, what did you do when you got angry? What did you say?”   “The third time she asked ‘What do you think you can contribute?’ I was probably a little too forceful in my reply. I could tell she didn’t really like my tone. I told her everything was right there on my resume. My whole career recording shitty fucking books-on-shitty-fucking-tape is right there. What you see is what you get.”   “Victor! You didn’t say ‘fucking’ during the interview, did you?!” Nora looks over the thermos, places it down on the table. “You didn’t say, ‘What you see is what you get’ – did you?!”   “I’m not a complete asshole. And I’ve asked you to please not call me ‘Victor’. My mother calls me ‘Victor’. It’s Vic.” I pick up the thermos, turn it over: Dunn-Rite Model 36A. I untwist the cup, unscrew the stopper, sniff. No discernible odor. Peering inside, I can see the vacuum bottle is intact. Damn. I’m buying this. I’ll pull the bottle out and put in the Tartan Tower. A transplant. But there’s no price sticker anywhere on it.   Nora sing-songs my name: “V-i-i-i-c! You can’t act like that on an interview!”   “I know, I know. I should’ve rescheduled. I was very upset and didn’t get much sleep the night before...” I search around for the owner of the thermos. I lock eyes with yet another gray-haired hippie woman. She slides sideways between the tables to me.   “How much?” I ask.  She squints, frowns, shakes her head, says “Three dollars?”. I don’t haggle. I tranfer the thermos to my right hand and reach into my left front pocket. The hippie lady sticks her hand out for the cash.   “What happend the night before?” Nora asks.   “Huh?” I answer, distracted. I put the thermos in the crook of my left elbow, begin to peel off three dollars from my money clip. Nora yanks my arm. The thermos hits the ground. I close my eyes at the familiar sound.   “Shit! Didn’t I ask you NOT to grab my arm like that? What the hell...”   “I’m sorry! I didn’t see the thermos. I thought you put it down!” Nora says.   “YOU put it down! I picked it up! I was going to buy it!” I am very angry.   “I’m sorry. Jesus. It’s just some crummy old thermos.”   The old hippie lady smiles at me. She still has her hand outstretched. I peel off three dollars from the clip and hand it to her. “I’m sorry.” she says. “Do you want a bag?”   “No.” I lean down, pick up my newly-purchased, broken thermos. I turn and walk off. Nora sidles up to me. "You want to know what happened the night before? Okay. I’ll tell you. I didn’t really want to get into it...”   “Jesus, what can it be?” Nora laughs. I love her laugh. “Now you have me really curious...”   “We had a long phone conversation the night before...”   “And?”   “And? We were on the phone for two fucking hours. You told me you thought we should probably just be friends. You basically broke up with me.” Nora scrunches up her nose, says. “Really?”   “Really.”   “Oh. So I suppose it’s my fault you gave a lousy interview?” She stops, crosses her arms over her chest, thrusts out a hip.   “No. Shit. This is exactly why I didn’t want to get into this."   “You think I’m the reason you can’t find a job?” She’s hissing now. I walk over to her, put my hand on her upper arm. She’s frowning. She brushes me back.   “No, no. It’s just that I probably never should’ve gone. I was up all night, upset.”  Nora is actually stamping her left foot now, in rhythm.   “You know Victor you really need to take responsibility for your own actions. You can’t blame me because you were upset and stayed up all night  - and then gave a lousy interview...”   “I’m not blaming you...”   “YES YOU ARE! You stood right there and said you were up all night upset, because I dumped you.”   “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant...”   “I know exactly what you meant. You really need to listen to what you say.”   THAT did it. I grab her arm hard, pull her to me, say, “Can’t you even begin to understand where your flip-flopping on our relationship has left me? I never know just what the fuck is going on. One minute you’re talking about marriage, kids, buying a fucking house. The next minute you tell me you think we should be friends. I’m a nervous wreck over this shit.”   “Victor, I mean it. I think we should just be friends. This is just not going to work out.” I close my eyes, hear a thousand thermoses hitting a thousand concrete floors.   “Ah, come on... Nora? Please don’t do this.” My ears begin to burn. Tears roll down my cheeks. “I love you.” I’m crying in front of all the fucking hippies and all their fucking junk.   “I love you, too, But that’s not enough. You’re just too sad and self-destructive.”   Sad and self-destructive? Sad and self-destructive? Me?! Shit! With the broken thermos and the tears I can’t think fast enough to say what I should: ”And you’re NOT?! We all are. But not all the time. Not exclusively. I’m also happy and constructive, aren’t I?” Instead, I sob quietly, trying to hide from the hippies as Nora turns and head to her car.   I follow her, broken thermos in hand. We are silent in the car, back to her cabin. Because my Jeep is a hundred miles south, in the town of Suffern, having broken down on the way up, it’s decided I’ll take a bus home. Nora isn’t up to driving, except to the bus stop, where she waits with me. Not a word passes between us in the half hour it takes for the bus to arrive. She hugs me before I board. I can’t bring myself to look her in the face. I ride home, wondering if nailing that stupid job would’ve kept us together.   Whenever I look at the second thermos, I think of her. I should probably just throw both thermoses out. Right? Next Week: Time To Dig Deep! WFMU's Fundraising Marathon begins Sunday, March 8 and runs until Sunday, March 22. During those two weeks we raise the bulk of the money that keeps the lights turned on and the turntables spinning. If all you know is other public radio Marathons, you're in for a treat: ours is some of the best radio WFMU does each year. WFMU DJs and hosts visit each other's shows and the cross-pollination leads to some great listening. We also have incredible prizes and premiums for pledging. My guest MCs this year are Jim the Poet of Sportsy Talk on Tue., March 10 and Pseu Braun of Pseu's Thing With A Hook and the Pseu Braun Show on Tue., March 17. The tables will turn when I MC on Fri. Mar. 13 with Billy Jam on Put The Needle On The Record and with Rex on Fool's Paradise Sat., March 21. The Aerial View Premium this year - yours for a pledge of just $75 or more - is the 4th edition of the Aerial View lighter (above). This one has a beautiful goldtone finish and features the Chris T. "Ace Face" illustration by Two-Fisted Titan of Gusto Jack "Hot Wahini" Taylor. If you've been enjoying this newsletter and the kickass radio show that accompanies it, please pledge. And remember: you can also adopt me! Upcoming Chris T. Stuff Saturday, May 2 I'll be selling records, CDs, cassettes, DVDs, books, old paper and lots of interesting collectibles at the WFMU Record Fair, this year in BROOKLYN! Saturday, May 30 I return to the Asbury Park Punk Rock Flea Market with whatever's left over from the WFMU Record Fair! Obligatory Throwback Pic Playing harmonica on "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35 with Hoof & Mouth Sinfonia, Marathon Finale at Maxwell's, 2009 OVER THE AIR: Every Tuesday night, 6 PM Eastern time on WFMU in the metro NY/NJ area at 91.1 FM and on WMFU at 90.1 in the lower Catskills, Hudson Valley, western New Jersey and Eastern Pennsylvania. ON THE WEB: Streaming audio in several formats is available at wfmu.org. ON DEMAND ARCHIVES: The Aerial View Archive page features archives going back to nearly the beginning of the show in RealAudio and MP3 format. PODCAST: Aerial View is available on iTunes as a podcast. WFMU MOBILE: Listen live via the mobile app or browse the archives. Get the iOS app here and the Android version here. Amazon Kindle users can use the TuneIn Radio app. Info for other platforms, including Blackberry, etc. can be found here. AUDIOBOOM: The newest way to hear Aerial View and share it on social media can be found here. Mobile apps are here. Artist Track Album Label Year Format Comments Images New * / Special *** Approx. start time Karl Golden & Simon Bowers (and Chris T.)  Aerial Comfortably Numb View   → "Aerial Comfortably Numb View" by "Karl Golden & S...                 <-- Previous playlist | Back to Aerial View playlists | Next playlist --> RSS feeds for Aerial View: Playlists feed | MP3 archives feed | Email the Program Director | Other WFMU Playlists | All artists played by Aerial View | Listen on the Internet | Contact Us | Music & Programs | WFMU Home Page | Support Us | FAQ Live Audio Streams for WFMU: Pop-up | 128k AAC | 128k MP3 | 32k MP3    (More streams: [+]) Give the Drummer Radio: Pop-up | 128k MP3 Rock'N'Soul Radio: Pop-up | 128k MP3 Sheena's Jungle Room: Pop-up | 128k MP3 Listener comments! 6:05pm → Marcel M: Hello Chris and friends 6:05pm → Mike East: Evenin', Marcel   6:06pm → trolltoll: Howdy Marcel 6:06pm → Ken From Hyde Park: Some cat hissing would go well with the barking dogs in the intro. 6:06pm → Marcel M: Mike East, Troll, hello! 6:07pm → Greg from Bloomfield: Evening, Chris and all! 6:09pm → Ken From Hyde Park: Studio B must mean 201-536-WFMU tonight. 6:10pm → chris: Greetings, Chris, Marcel, Mike, trolltroll, Ken, Greg, other Feelers.   6:12pm → JakeGould: Rat race in the ice age. 6:14pm → dale: it's 24 here in the hudson valley and the snow has turned into freezing sleet. tomorrow morning may be fugly 6:15pm → Marcel M: The pursuit of happiness merely for the sake of happiness is an empty and pointless enterprise. Also, Chris, you do have an underlying enthusiasm in your show. An enthusiasm to NOT PANDER! 6:15pm → Greg from Bloomfield: This week is gonna be a nightmare of work and weather, but at the end of it Jonesy & X Ray will be kicking the Marathon off. So it's all good. 6:15pm → Marcel M: What about Minor 7ths Chris? Need the ol' pinky there.   6:16pm → trolltoll: @Marcel: just cut the picking pinky 6:16pm → Mike East: @Chris - I think you're doing a great job with the show as it is. Correct me if I'm wrong, or if its too personal, but didn't you recently have a death in your immediate family? After my father died, I was numb for years. It wasn't until pretty recently that I could make myself feel again 6:17pm → Marcel M: @Trolltoll and Chris: Okay true enough but then if you play a Les Paul you'll have a hard time anchoring on your pickguard 6:18pm → Marcel M: And then how would you show affluence when sipping tea? 6:18pm → Marcel M: Okay I'm done now :-)   6:19pm → JakeGould: Every use a mobile device like a smart phone. When you least expect it while your swiping, the pinky pops up. 6:20pm → Mike East: Having kids really opened up my heart to a level I hadn't previously known was possible.   6:20pm → trolltoll: “You’d lose 50 percent of your hand strength, easily ... the pinkie teams up with the ring finger to provide power. " www.nytimes.com/2008/12/16/health/16pink.html   6:20pm → V Priceless: Hey Chris T and all! Nice word, turpor. 6:21pm → Marcel M: Do trolls have pinkys? 6:22pm → Mike East: re: not falling down...I busted my knee on the ice on 10th ave last week while trying not to get hit by a truck. Winter sucks...for so many reasons. 6:23pm → Chris Echo: The Smiths were upbeat and miserable at the same time 6:24pm → Greg from Bloomfield: I'm gonna call my autobiography "Upbeat and miserable"...   6:25pm → LES: No respect for radio stunts   6:25pm → V Priceless: Woo! Pseu team-up will kick buttocks!   6:27pm → V Priceless: Weed!! That's why! 6:27pm → Marcel M: Synthetic tropical eggs... haha 6:27pm → ironybread: Are pledges to a specific show a metric used to determine whether or not that show may be eventually dropped? Because, you know, I love station manager Ken’s show, but Stalin was the one man Stalin couldn’t purge, if you take my meaning. 6:30pm → Marcel M: Another bar in Bushwick...   6:31pm → trolltoll: @ironybread: I think DJ performance in the cage match carries heavier weight for those decisions.   6:32pm → JakeGould: Smart watches are dumb. 6:38pm → Greg from Bloomfield: '76   6:40pm → be rad: I remember it being pre 77' because its crazy how "Punk" Bickel looks 6:43pm → Marcel M: Marge tried to tell Lisa to do that, but then she realized it was wrong and told her to be her skeptical and negative self. A heartwarming moment.   6:48pm → LES: ChrisT get the Barbara Ehrenreich book. It helped me my marriage and my business.   6:50pm → V Priceless: Uniondale Mini Cinema!   6:50pm → Robert: Maybe you'll meet the real life model for the Angriest Dog in the World. 6:55pm → George of Troy: Maybe he meant tremolo and not reverb? 6:57pm → Marcel M: Thanks Chris!   7:01pm → LES: This show is always positive cause it ain't fake. Comment! Name Email ✖ Re To songs (C) 2024 WFMU. Generated by KenzoDB, written 2000-2024 by Ken Garson To Comments!