"Take time to kill yourself with kindness. Every day. Kill yourself with kindness. Kill everything thing around you with it. Kill those around you with it. Take no prisoners. Take no enemies. Kill only your friends. The world is your friend. The world is not made of kindness. The universe is not kind. Friends are not kind. Kill them with it. Set yourself free. That is the only way to put up with this book. That is the only way you will one day pick it up and on another put it down. Like putting down your favorite dog. With kindness."

—Rory Simanelli-Crum, “How I Wrote This Book and Found A Way To Your Heart”

(30 plays)

Thomas Edison’s Crazy Boxing Cats

Shame was her currency. It gave her equity in a world that she felt forced her hand of youthful indifference. She was the old mangy cat knowingly left alone for the weekend and returned to as if snuggles and cutesy ‘mews’ were given course for the day. She shamelessly shamed everyone she saw. She would shame Arnold at the deli across the street into a free root beer every time that she stuck her red-bellied nose and deep set twinkling eyes inside. Ricky down fourth street at the bicycle store would inevitably be shamed into half-off chain lube with each day of mannered twitches from her matted yet light and hanging brown hair. She even shamed herself at least once a day, looking at the mirror into her apathetic eyes she would eventually curse the inscrutable energy of the world outside. In the face of indifference to herself and to the world that she so vehemently was the sole occupant of, she would give in to the recalcitrant and contrarian tone that kept her eyelashes subtly bobbing above the surface of life’s mercurial waters. I’m cute but not cute enough, she would say, as if she had any right to say it. She could shame the best of them, but nothing was as shameful as that last harrowing look of magnanimity she gave herself in the mirror before descending into the vagaries of her ornery persona for the day. She was a shameful emotional silo filled with petty allotments of affected personality. She was no one but her shame. It gave her the strength to be someone. Anyone.

—Diana Fink from The Smell Jar.

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Dennis Hopper reciting Rudyard Kipling’s “If” on The Johnny Cash Show

Woh, Robert Loggia!

brad introduced me to jeff whose son john was in korea
and had a “brilliant” blog that I needed to look at.
brad told me jeff was a newscaster, “you’ll see him on the fox news”

the one australian woman went to the stage
mic scratchy and bloody sounding and

on the tv and then in the hallway she sang
and the firemen danced butwere forced
to drink from flask.

—from “Don’t Worry About Me Now” by Donny Lelildo

(29 plays)

"Swiss Army Knife with Rats and Pigeons" — Robert Breer (1980)


"Starla didn’t know how to summon the words to thank her mother for saying the things she said after that night at the tavern when everything seemed to have been going wrong. She thought about it for a second, and she decided that she could no longer even summon the emotions. Or confront them at least. She didn’t know. So guilt and anguish piled up in her and they breathed like some undulating liver inandoutinandout like the way it had been in the basement. In the basement surrounded by her old furniture. The furniture her mother had bought and sat on with Starla’s father. Her father. That person.

"Starla wanted to think. She thought she wanted to dance for a second. But. Standing up. She decided that dancing wasn’t very cool after all. She no longer wanted to dance so she sat down. But SHE THOUGHT— "OH MY GOD I NEED TO DANCE!!!" but all of a sudden, she thought that was the worst thing to do. So she plugged in her amp and pa system. She rolled the cassette tape. She wrote something about a blue sunday. But then she remembered something vaguely about another song with a title with blue in it that referred to another day of the week."

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Eddie Cantor

Miriam Makeba “Pata Pata”