I know the last post about the greatest thing in the world, WFMU, was a little skimpy because I got greedy for those big bloggin’ buck$ (A man like me has NEEDS.) There are so many deeply personal things a radio station called WFMU does for me that I can’t tell you about.

For example, if I admit that Irene’s Trudell’s mellifluous voice has cured me of performing messy rituals to The Unnamable One—

—then my enemies might think I have gone soft in my old age. (Dear Enemies: I have gone soft. Come by my place for your hug while I’m getting my thirty eleventh wind by freaking out to the late night random geniuses BEASTIN THE AIRWAVES or THE FROW SHOW. Don’t bother knocking, it’s open.)

I can’t tell you about how Bob Brainen’s comforting little ditty at the beginning of his show reminds me to put tin foil over the windows before the sun shows its horrible teeth. With the free-form webcast, Mr. Brainen is allowed to spin psychedelic smutty blues with some maniac jabbering over it, which I’ve found to be comforting when taken with sixty milligrams of Adderal. It’s a good thing the scheduler at the station alternates the Yankee accent of Bob Brainen’s against the down home accent of Laura Cantrell from week to week, or else I wouldn’t know that time was passing at all.

she sounds like she looks

Helpful Hint: If you tape Laura’s picture to the speaker when her show is on it’s like she is there in the room with you. It works even better if you put a gingham dress on the speaker too, and some little cowboy boots at the bottom, but watch out! That damn woofer hole will shock the hell out of you if you stick the wrong thing in there.

Late Night Deejays like Stan or Marty Mc Sorely or HotRod do Deejaying like our grandfathers used to do, with none of the fur-lined fallout shelters, bubbles, or monkeys that the daytime Deejays get. I consider the Night Deejays to be custodians of my sweet sweet sanity, influencing my interstate crime sprees and my incredible career as a photographist.

Somebody put this picture on the WFMU blog.

I put this picture on the Arthur blog. Creepy, huh?

And when I went to the history part of the WFMU blog thing and realized WFMU listens to my prayers and not whatever God I was praying to before. Note: Blogging about blogs denigrates me to a third degree blog belt, but this I will do for WFMU. That’s how strong my love is.

For example, scroll down in the history part of the blog and listen to a ballad sung by my shero, Patty Hearst , recorded while in captivity (not really). LISTEN TO TANIA!

Another reason why WFMU is so good is that they have shows in which they are able to leave all the nasty, naughty, filthy words so you can hear beautiful fucking music the way it was supposed to be heard.

The morning deejays are allowed to play whatever they want even if it would offend those grannies at the FCC.

GMILF: The F is for Free

That’s right, Hot Rod has a web-only platform where one can finally hear the important works of the “Faggot Fairys” with all the naughty bits unbleeped. I find it is beneficial to vent this type of evil late at night after the children are tucked away safely in their cages.

For all the sanity that the Nighttime Deejays have provided me, the Early Morning Webcast deejay crews have made an equal mess of my mind. Culprits such as  ”John Allen” or  ”Brad Labonte” careen through genres and play Dolly Parton after Jesus and Mary Chain, and then some disco or Andy Milonakis singing “Twitter Dat” until I pour coffee in my cereal. Real funny, guys.

Whenever I find myself kidnapped by drug dealers I use the STEINSKI archives to gain the trust of my captors and gain my freedom. The Latin Tinge in particular makes Scarface types happy enough to call you “cabrone,” which is like a “friend” in their land.

Steinski’s origins in music as a way to sell weed is further proof that everyone in Hip Hop has always had “High Priorities,” har de har. Speaking of High Hop Billy Jam and $mall Change can take care of that ish for you out by the fire escape during the long songs. ( Um, why isn’t there an all curse word hip hop show on a web-only platform? I can’t to go da club to stay current with what the kids are using for argot these days and I’m feeling out of the loop).

I don’t have time to get into how Trouble has grown with me over the years and provided a woman’s touch in my Modern World when Laura Cantrell was being all “shocky”.

I would love to gas on about Evan Funk Davies and the sheer philanthropy of introducing so many types of weird into my life. Or how Transpacific Sound Paradise is a great way to learn geography without joining the armed forces. I should write something about a fellow Tarheel who keeps the sound safe with the Safe and sound with Trent show but I get distracted by Irwin and his damn genre-skipping tokenism.

FUCK MAGARITAVILLE I GET DOWN IN JONESTOWN

Glen Jones and X Ray Burns are the bloody mary breakfast before going to the church of Teenage Wasteland, where Bill Kelly reaches the beaches with the Real News of the Weird.

Nor can I forget the Media Squat with Douglas Rushkoff, no matter how much I drink. Rushkoff is a certified genius and writes for this magazine which you are reading now and he kills me in interwebs traffic. So, yeah, Rushkoff is the greatest, but it’s not a contest so just shut up about it.

I don’t know why I tried to do this blog as it can never be finished, my fingers hurt. There are too many awesome Deejays and they are all good. My words do WFMU no justice. Go and listen for yourself or else and then pay them their tithing when it comes time for the Marathon or I will summon HIM again

And the End of Days will be upon us for real this time.

Disclaimer: I don’t in general listen to people who talk on the radio because I can’t stand it when people interrupt me when I’m talking to myself. I’m sure all The Talk Show guys are great, but like Hamlet, “the world is too much with me,” and I prefer the sweet sound of the voices in my head telling me to tune into Downtown Soulville as that crazy guy works up a cold sweat playing soul forty-fives for an hour (23 or 24 to be exact), and I dare you to find something wrong with that.