Advertise on podcast: DESIRE in CHAINS with David Raffin

The long awaited return to form. “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Winner Winner! by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4630-winner-winner- License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Wagon Wheel by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ Grateful acknowledgment thereof.

The return of the More Than True podcast features a short reading by Author/Playwrite/Comedian Dylan Brody. More Than True will be back soon, as I am diligently building a recording studio from scratch. “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Winner Winner! by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4630-winner-winner- License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license

Podcast 14, fancy new microphone, O boy “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Winner Winner! by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4630-winner-winner- License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Fuzzball Parade by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/5044-fuzzball-parade License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Grateful acknowledgment thereof.

This podcast is so important I recorded it on my phone. My apologies to those I have yet to offend. No apologies to those I have re-offended. To those I have pre-arranged a future offense for, I await payment. “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Winner Winner! by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4630-winner-winner- License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Fuzzball Parade by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/5044-fuzzball-parade License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Grateful acknowledgment thereof.

A podcast with no transcript? Quaint. Quaint. An exploration of the art of juggling oranges in the park for money. Winner Winner! by Kevin MacLeod (Clipped) Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4630-winner-winner- License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. The Show Must Be Go by Kevin MacLeod (slightly altered for time) Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4509-the-show-must-be-go License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Grateful acknowledgment thereof. These people are beautiful.

A story of mid childhood. “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Winner Winner! by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4630-winner-winner- License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Thinking Music by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4522-thinking-music License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Grateful acknowledgment thereof.

Take one home and put it under your bed tonight! – PDF –

The story of Tesla’s Wings, from the book Tragic Stories Disguised as Jokes. *** “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Winner Winner! by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4630-winner-winner- License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Aquarium by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/5738-aquarium License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Monkeys Spinning Monkeys by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4071-monkeys-spinning-monkeys License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Grateful acknowledgment thereof.

Duck Calls? We have answers. On the record. DUCK DUCK DOWN Two men walk into a bar. It is at this point in the joke  a spectator stands UP from the crowd, having seen something and wishing to report, and says : “Why are they men?“ And the Comedian says, “I’m sorry, but this is a sexist joke.”  *** Greatest fear: someone will shout “Duck” whilst I’m looking at a duck and I am then hit by a random flying object. Probably a duck in statuette form. A man came into a bar.  This is not a dirty joke. It was dark inside because it is a dark joke because the proprietor had failed to pay the bill.  Coincidentally, the proprietor was a duck.  Funny things happen in jokes, the world over. The bar was called “the duck billed platypus” which was often a point of confusion.  “But what’s in a name, anyway?” the proprietor quacked. Just a moniker.  Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” “No one asked you,” said the duck. Then the raven lobbed a projectile toward the duck.  Who failed to duck. And was thusly taken out in an untimely manner. Timing was off. Just enough to cause trouble. The projectile was a cuckoo clock which had stopped. Twice a day corrected. Even though it had stopped it made quite an impact upon the duck, effecting the disposition of the bill. All clocks stop eventually. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day  regardless of the impact upon the bill.                                  Sometimes a broken clock takes time. Hospitality isn’t all it’s quacked up to be. Remember TO duck  when the time comes  because time flies. The duck billed the platypus three dollars and forty-seven cents. “Cents? cents? Don’t make no sense,” said the irate duck billed platypus, waiving the bill in the air. “You say it ain’t fair?” said the duck. “I say it ain’t square!” said the platypus. It was quite a confrontation hanging in the air. Now, the duck billed platypus, he was no fool. He had done and gone to finishing school. He knew what was what, and the meaning of is, he was not new to this turnip truck biz. “If you don’t like it,” said the duck to his prey, “why don’t you just up and fly away?” “Mayhaps I will,” said the platypus. “Mayhaps I will.” Because the duck billed platypus had finally had his fill. Of the duck and his quack, of the thumb and it’s tack, and he was not prepared to say when he would be back. “Now see here,” said the duck, but the platypus didn’t hear,  Didn’t hear quack. He had flown to New Zealand, Jack. Every other duck is odd. That’s just ducky. That’s the way a duck operates. The Duck double billed the platypus over a plate of flapjacks. It was a society flap. The stool-pigeons saw to that. But flapjacks are always funnier than pancakes, always.  Cue the cards. “After we seize the means of production  we’ll set all those duck statuettes free.  No more to be lined up in neat little rows,  no more ducks placed in order  wading on duck row.  All the duck statuettes fly away home,  wherever those good eggs may nest.  On the corner of wild and sycamore street,  or a mantle  if that’s what the duck thinks best.” I hate when something is described as bigger or smaller than a breadbasket. A basket which carries bread CAN be any size. Council Bluffs, Iowa is home to the “largest breadbasket in the world.” Three people died in the weaving. And for what? They have proposed the construction of “the biggest little breadbasket in the world.” The very concept boggles the mind. Maximal minimization. Think small is the big picture. For years philosophers have pondered whether a breadbox which is too small to hold bread can, in fact, be considered a breadbox. This is a slice of life. What is the difference between a breadbasket and a breadbox? One of them is used to hold bread and the other is used to trap it. But which is which? When you find a loaf of bread outside of the bakery – that bread is free range. But it is still cruel.  What is the relationship between being the judge of a pie baking contest, and the age old tradition of hiring on a food taster for royals with LOW approval ratings? “It is a shame,” said the Queen to the jester, “for in addition to alerting me to potential poison, my taster would tell me which was good and which was bad. Indeed. Even which was the best. Two things in case of tie!” Then the queen laughed. Because the jester did something which invoked the response. However, neither of them considered how social roles would change inevitably through Time: how that which once invoked amusement would eventually become old hat, then unintelligible. Then at last, silly.  The role of the jester would change. The role of the royal taster may even be found redundant if the royalty is considered in poor taste. Even the role of the queen herself, for anyone could be a queen, if but for a day, though the Powers would not be what they were. For the life of a queen these days tends to be a royal drag. Once I went to the lake  to set some bread free.  I am afraid it was eaten by ducks. Nature is cruel. I kept yelling out, in warning, to the bread, “Duck! Duck!” But the bread, sadly, misunderstood. English is tricky. Veterinarians don’t like caring for ducks because ducks universally consider them quacks & are not shy about telling them so to their face. After a vet fixes a duck’s bill, damaged in an altercation with a rabbit and a stick of dynamite, this can be rather demeaning. For the duck’s part, the duck is irritated by the price on the bill from the veterinarian. The duck finds it despicable. After all, the duck could’ve turned his own bill around. Then strode off in indignation. The latter part he does anyway, bill in hand…  To the sound of the closing credits. Go to David raffin dot com. For five dollars a month you’ll learn to swim upstream. Its all free spawning from there. Caviar dreams. Until then, All the best fishes grant wishes to dishes.  *** “Winner Winner!” by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 “Someone Else’s Memories” and “Time Flux” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Grateful acknowledgment thereof. 

Last Call for the Three Comedians The melancholic comedian considered the puzzle of existence.  The listener doesn’t know. The ins and outs. He considered the audience, melancholic, dour, hard to please. Their lack of humor saddened him and effected his presence, a poor reflection upon them. He sought out the advice of his compatriots.  His bombardier insisted the answer was to hurl more bombs, from unexpected directions, the unpredictability measured to alter the viewpoint of the audience. In this she was adamant. It was the only way. Confrontational mendacity. Factionalize the audience. Make them fight themselves before you. Because the listeners don’t know.  What’s good for them.  She had written a book on this subject, of interest to those who rebel. Naturally it bombed in the marketplace. She claimed it had been defused by being watered down by said marketplace; because a product of a marketplace can never overturn  the market  in which it, itself, is a product which arose from those market forces. But people don’t usually find talk like that funny.  That’s the problem, said the bombedier. The body counts. The upbeat comedian commented that the way was to be as middling as possible, to pander to the most genteel sensibilities,  feed the crowd hamburger to warm their hearts, to make the audience feel  comfortable  and part of the majority. To fit in, together. Because the average listener doesn’t know.  What they are missing.  That is why they are so easily satisfied. The other comedians called him a dirty hack, which, of course, he was. But those people who called him that were themselves guilty of being controversial. And it’s a strange hill to take a stand on because controversies shift underneath you. And you might slip and fall. And people would laugh. *** I believe it was Milton Berle who first said, “The average person will laugh when someone dressed up as a bad person slips on a banana peel and falls on their ass. But to make a comedian laugh an actual bad person has to slip on a banana peel and break their ass. Also, it’s funnier if tragedy comes in threes.  Because the average listener doesn’t know,  unless you hit them in the head with it repeatedly,  the importance of fruit to a healthy diet. Its bananas.  *** And one can’t talk about diet anymore. That’s going too far. People won’t stand for it. Either way. There is ONE vegan corpse on Mount Everest. And you hear no end of it. Nobody ever talks about the carnivorous diets of all the other corpses which litter the mountain. Man those carnivores are humble. Quiet folk. Unassuming and tolerant. I hear you can still see the half eaten cheeseburger on the guy who serves as a marking post on the east slope. Hamburger Ned they call him. As climbers often say to each other – if you run into old hamburger Ned, you’ve gone too far! Can’t you count? Don’t you listen? Where were you at the last supper? I hear they re-used all the garnish. Who paid? ***  Three comedians, each blindfolded, are presented with an elephant. So, when each comedian has a turn to speak and address the situation, they each must, in turn, address the elephant in the room.  Remember, elephants are not cheap but comedians are.  I am sorry for the animal cruelty implicit within this setup. The first comedian, confronted with the leg of the elephant, tried to just pull his own shtick and this was very revealing. He was trampled, and the crowd seemed to enjoy that. The second comedian, confronted with the animals trunk, didn’t seem to know whether he was coming or going. He’d been a long time in the business, you would think he would understand the importance of timing. The third comedian, confronted with the ass, insisted upon making everything about himself.  And it wasn’t the right crowd for that. If he hadn’t been blindfolded he would have been able to see.  Anyway, the moral of the story is bread is less expensive than circuses but the people’s demand to be entertained can be satiated by mere spectacle which ads up to nothing.  But I am speaking arabic here. *** Mystery Dinner A Hapgood joint “Of course, we do math after dinner,” said the fancy gentleman. “I would expect nothing less from such a cultured family, said Hapgood. “After Dinner Math, the old man always called it. Said it cleared the mind. He was an old man, my old man. Sixty-Seven when I was born.” “Of course,” said the fancy gentleman.  “How many courses?” asked Hapgood. “In this dinner.” “One Hundred Thirty-Four!” said the fancy man. “A great number, of course,” said Hapgood. “And when did your dinner guest die?” “In the middle of the Sixty-Seventh course. Right in the middle, of both the allotted time and the state of the dish, which was half eaten.” “Half, you say,” said Hapgood. “I do say,” said the fancy man. “I assume I shall have to say it again. And again.” “Invariably,” said Hapgood. “Invariably.” “Of course, in these matters, you are looking for variability,” the fancy gentleman said. “Exactly,” said Hapgood. “I look for variability in all matters, wherever I can find it.” “Well there is none here,” said the fancy man. “In the middle of the Sixty-Seventh course of a One Hundred and Thirty-Four course dinner, my guest dropped dead. Into the middle of a half eaten dish.” “Messy social situation,” said Hapgood.  “Inarguably,” said the fancy man. “Inarguably.” “You might say the aftermath of the dinner party occurred before the After Dinner Math could have been factored in,” said Hapgood. “Are you… are you having… fun here tonight, Detective Hapgood?” said the fancy man, his voice crackling with disgust. “Yes,” said Hapgood, who was just happy everything was out on the table. It made discovery easier. But it helped that he looked at the matter as if he were not involved, which is a mistake that can be capitalized upon without correction.  Come on down to David Raffin dot com where we have a whole line of sweatshirts, tea cozies, dirty playing cards, and bun warmers.  You could sit in the hand that kneads the dough that warms the bun. That’s a premier package over it patreon A monthly donation is auto patreonic and that means you fly the flag. For five dollars a month. You could be a little bit lighter, my friend. Did I mention that advanced practitioners can fly? I would never steer you wrong.  *** “Winner Winner!” by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Grateful acknowledgment thereof.

A charming castPod with a special appearance by Good ol’ Charlie Brown. I was at home and I was not thinking about either Martin Van Buren or the kangaroo. I had real world problems on my mind. The kangaroo was famous, for, among other things, having carved a phallic replica he called “Mr. Pokey.” He carved it from hardwood. Really bang up job. Intricate. You could see the veins. It stood at about 8 1/2 inches, which was awkward if you were trying to conceal it. He told everybody it was 8 1/2 inches, but it was really 7 5/8. Everybody knew. Man is the measurer of all things. And every one of them, when no one was looking, had measured the thing. Some of them, the ones who were not good at math, consulted each other’s notes. That went just about as well as could be expected. Because of the whole issue about concealment, he eventually whittled it down to 3 1/4. It was never the same. But he made the bowl that held the weed, which was snuggled, nestled, really, between the cock and the balls, Bigger. And he tried to toke the disappointment away. He was not as popular after he carved the thing down. Who is to say what happened. Let history decide. As I said, I was not thinking about him. But when he hopped on over to my place, or rather was delivered by another, secure, as if in their pouch, I ended up calling Martin Van Buren. For help. “Hey Martin, how’s it hanging?” And there was some small talk. Not about Mr. Pokey. And then I said, “Hey Martin I got the kangaroo over here.” But that’s not really how it happened. I mean that happened. But it happened an hour or so later. After I had failed to dislodge the kangaroo from my own pouch. So when Martin said, “F**k the kangaroo,” I had to change my tactic. He was not the first person to say Fuck the kangaroo. That day. And I just wanted him to bounce. The kangaroo came with a military issued shit-bag, so named because it contained all his shit. Notably Mr. Pokey. Nobody wanted to see that little thing. The kangaroo is running on empty. First thing he did was ask me to take him to a garden party. Said they could put him up there. So I put him in my car with his government issued shit-bag. And we took off. But when we got there, people ran into the house. A woman came out. Holding a baby. To prove she meant business. And she looked at me and she nodded and said hello, saying just that, hello and my name. Because she was polite. Then she looked at the kangaroo and said, “You got a lot of nerve coming around here M**********r.” And that’s how I learned the back story. Seems there had been a party the night previous and the kangaroo had been present, and drunk. He was also feeding drinks to good ol’ Charlie Brown. After he and good ol’ Charlie Brown got real drunk, wasted, they had a fight over this and that. And the kangaroo, who was an amateur boxer, had gone off and slugged good ol’ Charlie Brown. I pieced this back story together, by listening to the things the woman with the baby was saying. First she came out of the house and she was not angry at me. Rather she was angry at the kangaroo. Everybody today was angry at the kangaroo. And if they weren’t angry at the kangaroo, they would be. Because the kangaroo had gotten his kicks and now the play was turnabout. And she came out and called him a MotherFucker who shouldn’t be showing his face around here again and how dare he. And she waved the baby at him like some sort of a voodoo ritual. That you conduct when you’re confronted with a MotherFucker of his type. And she turned around to walk away, with the baby, when she turned back and said “MotherFucker, you hit good ol’ Charlie Brown. In the face.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. I took it as fact. Pegged her as an eyewitness. Her name was Peg, by the way. I tell you this, though you will literally never see her again in this story. But I am not a MotherFucker.   I was cleared once in a tribunal. By the way, good ol’ Charlie Brown was, in the parlance of the day, special. That’s why people were so angry. So that’s how we ended up, bounced back at my place, me and the kangaroo, who had little in common. So I called Martin Van Buren. For help. To dump something on someone else’s doorstep. But then we would have a fabulous time. “Oh,” said Martin Van Buren. “Like the good time we had last week when we visited four fast food restaurants in a row, last one being a corporate burger joint where we had just each finished our fourth meal of the afternoon when you left to use the restroom. And the manager of the place, because it had just opened up, was talking to me about employment opportunities. When you came out and said we had to leave.” “We had to leave,” I said. “Because you puked in the bathroom,” he said. “Yes,” I said. “All over the floor.” “You M**********r,” he said. “I could have gotten that job.” “You didn’t want that job,” I said. And he knew it was true. Especially then. Because he was going to have the nickname “puke boy” and everything he did wrong the manager was going to say he was raised in a vomitorium.  And so we all headed for the big city. We drove for 63 miles in silence. And when we got to the city, I hate to break this to you, nobody there wanted the kangaroo. And the kangaroo started pestering us, right off, to bring him back home. But I think you see where this is going. The kangaroo had no home. Because the kangaroo was welcome nowhere. We considered ditching him there. But instead we drove back in silence for 63 miles. And I don’t remember how we got rid of the kangaroo. But at some point he bounced. Meanwhile Martin Van Buren became the president of these United States. But you know that story. That M**********r. “Winner Winner!” & “Amazing Grace” by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 “Someone Else’s Memories” & “Scattered Knowledge” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0. Share:

This podcast is an excerpt from the novella “Sigmund, Falling Up!” by David Raffin. Photo by Craig Whitehead on Unsplash “Winner Winner!” by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 “Someone Else’s Memories” “Simulation Hypothesis” “Line of Flight” from the album The Politics of Desire by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0.

Photo by Museums Victoria on Unsplash As usual the More Than True podcast is subversive rather than political. An intro by Groucho, a discussion of the tragedy of Abbot And Costello, and Einstein’s troubles with the classes. “Winner Winner!” “Erik Satie: Gymnopedie No 1” by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album The Politics of Desire by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0.

The More than True podcast returns with a vintage story about spies, Russians, shoes, USA electoral politics, and raisins. It’s an audio rendition of the story More Than One Day in the Life of Igor Igoravitch, from the collection Hard Fought Illusions of Choice. Enjoy. It is strong. Like Stalin. “Winner Winner!” by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 “Someone Else’s Memories” from the album The Politics of Desire by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0.

A newsletter for you. PDF. V.1 Iss. 1. Words! Words! Words! Feel free to print a few copies and hand them out. We have an election to win, after all.