Men’s gymnastics uniforms are so boring. Where are the sequins? Where are the sparkles? Why can’t Pommel Horse Ken shine bright like a diamond as he’s twisting under the stadium lights? Why are they denied joy?
Either give the women pants or make the men compete in high-cut leotards! I don’t care which! I just want equality!!!!
Oh, hello to your dad! Well, mustard relish is a thing you can put on a hot dog but it's not a Chicago thing that I've ever heard of. It's definitely not what goes on an official Chicago Style dog. I do actually love a hot dog, but I do not like most of what's on a Chicago Dog, relish included.
There's a lot that goes on one, but the relish is a neon green pickle relish, and the mustard is usually either Plochman's yellow mustard, Ballpark (now I think it's branded as Bertman Ballpark Mustard), or Koop's Yellow. My personal favorite Chicago grilling condiment is the grassy, aromatic celery salt -- I put it on burgers too.
If you want to give your dad some authentic Chicago flavor without building the whole messy salad, I recommend a nicely griddled dog in a poppyseed bun with Plochman's mustard, onions, and celery salt. If it's a Vienna Beef brand dog, so much the better, but it's tough to get those on the coasts.
Congrats on the new kitten! The cryptids send their regards :D
I think I can see my biblically accurate home from here!
I am dying laughing at “Swedish American Aragon Museum” on the left there. I think a couple of streets at the top have fused to form a “Wyvern Avenue” as well.
Welcome to Radio Free Monday for the week of June 23, 2025. RFM posts links to peoples’ personal fundraisers asking for community assistance, on Tumblr, Dreamwidth, and the Fediverse.
Dasheka, the sole caretaker of her elderly mother and her three young children, is raising funds to secure new housing for her and her family. She is in immediate need of $1,500. Cashapp $sheekwilson.
It’s not a virtue to focus totally on your own peace and disregard problems around you. Ironically, it’s also not a virtue to stew in your own anxiety.
People online like “I will NOT seek peace while there is suffering around me! I will inflict suffering on myself as long as there is pain in the world!”
Cool, that’s useless.
It’s one thing if you say “As long as there are hungry people in my community, I’ll stay engaged with the food bank,” (which probably will actually comfort you because you’ll be surrounded by people working for a solution!) but for a lot of people it’s “As long as there is suffering in the world, I will self-flagellate with sad Instagram reels,” and you might as well not.
It’s 1987 and my friend Tommy Kim has an idea to make his college applications stand out from the crowd: In addition to the usual essays, grades and test scores, he’s going to include a cassette of songs he’s written, performed by a band he put together, and professionally produced in an actual studio. The band he put together included a bunch of friends and schoolmates, including me on drums and my pal Kevin Stampfl on bass. Our name: Dead Rats Don’t Fly, or “DRDF” for short. Why did we call ourselves that? Look, pal, it was the 80s, okay. Lots of things didn’t make sense. The four-song EP we cranked out in two days of studio time was called 327, named after Tommy’s room number in the Holt dormitory at Webb.
So, how was 327 as musical statement? Well, it is exactly the music that you’d expect from a bunch of rock-loving 80s teenage dudes of varying musical abilities hastily tossed together into a band with only two days of studio time at their disposal. Are the songs… good? With all love: No. In the performances, can you sense primordial musical talent waiting for its moment to arrive? Also no. Could the drummer keep a beat without speeding up? I mean, sometimes? Tommy did get into college at least one place, so it did what it was supposed to do. Otherwise, it’s a kind of a mess.
But I think it’s an endearing mess, and at the time, waaaaay back in 1987, when we got our band copies of the EP (on cassette! It was the 80s!), we thought it was pretty damn cool. Kevin and I drove around in his Mustang, listening to the thing, kind of dazed that we had actually been in a studio, and that music we made had been committed to a permanent medium. 327 isn’t exactly good, but 17-year-old me was still proud of it, and I had a blast playing songs with my friends. And that was a good thing.
(It also allowed me to play a great prank: when Steve Shenbaum, one of the singers — yes, we had two — arrived at Northwestern for his freshman orientation and met his dorm’s resident assistant, the RA said “Steve Shenbaum? Of DRDF? Dude, that’s my favorite band!” and all the upperclassmen in the dorm were able to recite the EP’s lyrics to him. He was amazed, as he recounted to me a couple days later when I called him to see how his college experience was shaping up, and eventually it was my giggling into the phone as he told me about it that revealed that I had called his RA a day before he showed up to set the bait for him. It was delightful. I believe Steve has forgiven me. Probably.)
I misplaced my 327 tape years ago, and of course these days I don’t have a cassette player anyway, and for years the EP passed into myth, and then into legend (for, like, the extremely limited number of people who know the band members and/or ever heard the cassette or heard DRDF play live at our single concert). Then a few years ago Steve sent me an MP3 rip of his cassette of 327 (see? I told you he’s forgiven me!) and I had it again. I listened to it! It was still terrible! Nevertheless I took one of the songs from it, called “It’s a New Reality” (I wrote the lyrics for it, you see), cleaned it up slightly with Logic Pro, and put it up on YouTube. A fun, or at least nostalgic, time was had by the 1.6k people who listened to it since I posted it.
But what of the rest of 327? Well, it’s a few years later now, I’m somewhat more proficient at musical production, and music recovery tools are better these days, so you know what? Fuck it, I’ve gone back and rehabbed the entire EP now. I went in, stemmed out the vocals, drums and other instruments, cleaned and brightened them, moved around some of the bum notes to get them (mostly) on key, sonically painted over the clicks where I hit my drumsticks together, and in one place patched a place in the recording where a tape head clearly jammed up, leaving a blank space in a song, pasting in the keyboards and adding a bridge vocal.
The cleanup has reveal 327 as a minor classi — no, actually it hasn’t, it’s still a bunch of 80s kids bashing together tunes on a tight schedule with more enthusiasm than actual talent (well, the guitarist, a ringer Tommy brought in named George Huang, was actually talented; he was our age but had clearly been playing for years. The rest of us? Hey, we tried!). Also, it wouldn’t have done to try to erase every artifact of its 80s amateurishness, and I’m not that good an engineer anyway, so there’s still tape hiss (and lossy MP3 simmerwarble), compressed dynamics, variable tempos and other evidence that what you’re hearing was hauled up from the subterranean depths of four decades ago. Don’t kid yourself. If you’re listening to this, it’s out of curiosity more than anything else.
Which is fine! And better than fine! 327 (now named 327/38 to note that it’s been 38 years since we got together to make this — actually maybe 39, since I’m a little fuzzy on the exact dates, but it hardly matters now, so I’m sticking with 38) is an artifact of another time and place, when hair bands ruled the earth and teenagers made their music fast and dirty in studios rather than on their laptops. It wasn’t a better time (I like making music on my laptop, thank you!), but it was a different time, and it shows. We had fun, and that was its own excuse. Plus Tommy got into college!
Enough with the liner notes, here are tunes. Note that on the original 327 some of these songs may have had different titles, but I can’t remember what they were. It’s been a while, okay?
One Hit (To the Body): If memory serves correctly, this is a song Tommy wrote about being nostalgic for a bunch of friends at… summer camp, I think? There’s a tape warble in the middle of the song that I left in because I don’t how to fix it, and also it adds a sort of verisimilitude to the 80s experience, that horrifying moment when you wonder if your tape player is going to eat your cassette. 80s kids know this pain.
It’s a New Reality: Our hit single! I wrote the lyrics imagining David Lee Roth singing it (the arrangement in my brain was different than it is here). Tommy wrote the bridge about rock and roll being in our blood, because we needed a bridge. There are some very 80s guitar solos in here. Thank you George, wherever you are! You’re probably a doctor now or something. But you could rock back in the day.
Tears Go Rolling: The album’s “epic,” with two lead singers, different parts in entirely different tempos and soaring guitar solos designed to wrench the lighters out your pocket to wave in the air. Yeah, the 80s were all about the epic. This is the song where there was blank spot in file and I had to patch it. I nailed the instrumental patch but you’ll probably be able to tell where I dubbed in my voice. Which is okay! It doesn’t have to be seamless! I do enjoy the idea that 56-year-old me is collaborating with 17-year-old me. Hello, 17-year-old me! Enjoy your hair!
Pauline: The opening guitar riff feels kind of Red Hot Chili Peppers (in contemplative mode), and then the middle the guitars go a little Johnny Marr. However, don’t actually expect either RHCP or Smiths! The guitar is leading down you a path! The song itself is going somewhere else entirely!
There, I hope this musical experience has been everything you’ve hoped for and more. Also, surprise! 327/38 is also available on streaming. The long-lost EP absolutely no one was asking for is now everywhere! So now you never have to be without it. Ever. And thank goodness for that.
Now, for the sake of completeness: Credits!
327/38 Originally produced by Tommy Kim, additional engineering by John Scalzi All songs Tommy Kim except “It’s a New Reality” by Tommy Kim and John Scalzi
Chris Godfrey: Keyboards John Herpel: Guitar George Huang: Guitar Scott Moore: Vocals John Scalzi: Drums Steve Shenbaum: Vocals Kevin Stampfl: Bass
You may ask: Will we ever get the band back together? Well, if Spinal Tap can do it after 41 years, it’s not out of the question. Maybe Tommy needs tenure.
“Jim Gordon would play it cool if Bruce ever revealed his identity to him” lies, that man chain smokes routinely for a glimpse of sanity. He’s consciously ignoring so much daily, it’s giving him heart palpitations and high blood pressure.
If he saw Bruce Wayne trying to approach him with that Batman-esque look in his eyes, Jim would probably throw himself off the nearest building to avoid him. He knows, but he doesn’t want to know. If it’s never confirmed directly to his face, then he doesn’t know shit.
It’s telling that he’d rather take twelve decapitation cases in a row (with seven missing heads) rather than spend more than .3 seconds near Bruce Wayne.
Jim can handle Gotham, but not identity shenanigans.
not to get too deep on main but did anyone else have such deeply rooted issues with their self worth for so long that they thought as a kid/teen that their only redeeming feature was being “low maintenance” and now as an adult you give yourself guilt pangs asking for any more than the barest minimum in virtually any relationship because asking for things might negate your only good quality which is just “doesn’t ask for things”
You know what I think would make a really cool DC game?
Gotham Mafia.
The game opens panning over the city of Gotham as rain cascades from the sky in sheets. A newscaster on a flickering box tube television reports the horrific murder of Martha and Thomas Wayne in Park Row late last night. Rumors abound that it’s a mob hit, while others speculate that it was a simple robbery gone wrong. Their only son, Bruce Wayne, survived.
Abruptly, the television flickers off, and a harsh voice screams for everyone milling around to get back to work.
You’re a dock worker, you spend shifts loading and unloading boxes, back-breaking labor for barely any money. One of your coworkers, an older man, Paulie, who has been there longer than anyone else, remarks that this will be the end for Gotham City.
“What?” a different heavy New Jersian accent demands, “Because some rich schmucks bit the dirt?”
Paulie shakes his head. “Because those were the last two people trying to do any damn good around here. You’ll see. This city’s going to go to the dogs.”
Your shift ends, and you leave, heading for your second job as a delivery driver. You spend the rest of the evening running errands. Or trying to. The city feels like a powder keg. More so than usual. Like Old Man Paulie was right. The Waynes really were the last ones keeping a lid on all this shit. Or maybe folks were just looking for an excuse. There are certainly fewer cops around this part of the city than usual. You mention it to the guy manning the back door of the Iceberg Lounge as you hand over a parcel for someone called ‘The Penguin.’
Fucking weird name.
He laughs and says, Of course, there’s fewer cops. They’re all up Park Row trying to figure out who offed the Waynes. All the better for business, he says. Even crooked cops are a pain in the ass when they come sniffing around the club.
You head out back to your car. You’re almost done for the night and stop to take a break, sipping shitty coffee from a carbaord cup as you look up at the smog smothered night sky, leaning against the side of your car. A car goes peeling past you and collides with a lamp post. The sound of more cars screeching toward you and the echo of gunfire is not promising.
One man staggers from the car and pulls his buddy out behind him. “You!” he screams, and that’s when you realize he’s got a gun pointed at you. “This your car? Drive!”
What happens next is a quick getaway through Gotham streets that ends with you taking what turns out to be mobsters to their Family doctor in Little Italy. You’re sitting terrified behind the wheel of your car in what can only be called a compound, when a man in a nice suit rocks up and knocks on your car window, almost giving you a heart attack. You roll it down, and the man in the flash suit smiles. “For your trouble,” he says, handing you an envelope. You don’t dare look inside, but it feels like more cash than you’d make in a month at either of your jobs.
“Oh, and ah, one more thing,” the man says before you can pull out. “This never happened.”
Nope, it sure fucking didn’t. You peel out of there like a bat out of hell and contemplate moving to Metropolis. You don’t. Your family is here and honestly, who the fuck can afford Metropolis?
The money lasts a while, though. And before long, you put it out of your mind. It was just another weird night in Gotham. Until it catches up with you in the form of another gang member cornering you on your delivery job late one night and telling you that “Mister Zucko isn’t very happy with you helping the Canes.”
“The who?”
Turns out that’s the mobsters you helped escape. You’re pretty sure you’re about to get iced. But the guy’s a big talker, so you’re able to knee him in the groin and run hell for leather through the streets. You’re in the Italian district, and you remember the way to the compound. There’s every chance the Canes will shoot you for showing up on their doorstep, but you’ll take your chances with them over whoever the fuck the Zuckos are.
You’ve just jumped the fence and landed hard on the other side when you hear a gun crack. For a moment, you think you’ve been shot, but when you look up, the man with the flash suit is there, arm extended, the smoking barrel of a gun pointed over your head at the man who’d been chasing you. Turns out he’s real dead.
What ensues is your initiation into the small-time gang family, the Canes, aiming to rise through the ranks of Gotham’s criminal elite. The game handles everything, from learning to bribe crooked cops, rigging elections, bank heists, assassinations, and the general descent of Gotham City into absolute chaos while you and your family thrive.
Decades pass, and you are now a force to be reckoned with. You are the right hand to the Cane family, and it seems nothing can stop you. Even Carmine Falcone is aware of who you are and has tried to poach you for his own.
Part of you laments the person you’ve become. But it’s hard to argue with the money.
You’re sitting at the Family bar one night when you see a news report of a man in a weird green suit, giving the police the runaround. He appears to be leaving them riddles to solve?
Christ. As though this city can’t get any weirder.
The boss calls you in for a meeting, and you go out back to the warehouse where everyone is gathered, mulling over the blueprints of a building. Your boss just gave you the order to go kill some people when a leather-clad figure in a mask and cape descends through the skylight like God’s own wraith come to claim penance for your sins.
The fight is futile, but you still have to ask as the man lifts you from the ground like you weigh nothing, holding you against the wall by your neck. “Who… who are you?”
The figure smiles under the hooded cowl. It’s the most terrifying thing you’ve ever seen. “I am vengeance,” says a voice like gravel sliding over sheet metal. “I am the night, I am Batman.”
The last thing you see before the game cuts to the credits is a gauntleted fist coming toward your face.
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