I’m working on repairing an old Lowrey organ at the moment, and it turns out some of the frequency dividers are borked. You can buy replacement frequency dividers from the Organ Service Corporation for around $30US (the particular one I need is KS-5823), but since I need at least four of them, I’ve decided to make my own.
The easiest way to build them, I think, is using two 4520 chips (4-bit counters). This schematic needs double sided tracking. It’s ugly, and you could probably figure out some ways to make it better. (I at first accidentally got two 4518 chips - decimal counters - which would have had wrong frequency and duty cycle. Could be interesting to try, if you’re keen to replace them all…)

And so, after a long enough hiatus, Sandwich and Grey have returned. Because it’s been so long, I think it might be worth recapping a vague plotsum of the story so far.
Our two wonder earls, Sandwich and Grey, after entering an unwitting café were perplexed by how the resident baristacrat knew their name. After eating and getting their punch on with the staff, they decided to go to the park.
“Egads!”, said one of the two earls.
“Yes. We seem to have arrived in the future!” said the other.
And so it became apparent to them, the pigeons surrounding them, and the reader that they had somehow traveled forward in time by about two hundred years.

I don’t care
if people think you’re dumb
I don’t care
’cause I think you’re cute as they come

you don’t appreciate algebra
but you can quote Britney verbatim
so what the hell,
that’s good enough for me

you don’t understand how
your religion is … quite stupid.
but you do like sex
at least as much as me

I don’t care
if people think you’re dumb
I don’t care
’cause I think you’re as pretty as they come

if you’re pregnant
I will definitely marry you
provided it’s mine, no-one else’s
or whatever, I don’t really mind

you need money
here’s my credit card,
take it now, it’s yours
just don’t ever leave me

or when you do, can I send off for one of those Russian mail order brides as a replacement?

That’s right. I’m treating you to some fine fine superfine pop music from an underground supergroup called Brill.

Brill - Baby Don’t Leave Yet

I’d normally post lyrics here, but to be honest the lyrics are completely irrelevant, meaningless and trite. That’s what makes it pop music, right?
In any case, I hope you enjoy it, and I thoroughly suggest you listen to it at times when you are most susceptible to external influences and persuasion such as on the brink of sleep, while driving your car, and the like.*

* Or as Hitler would have said, ‘ähnliche Jauche’: ‘and shit like that’.

You Never Talk Dirty To Me

A tone poem. Ideally I’d like to record a short (silent) film acting it out, but I probably never will. It would go something like this:
Two men are sitting at a bus shelter. They’re old, grey hair, and they both have boomboxes. Man 1 points at something out of shot, CU to shot of sign saying “fluoride”, for about a second. CU to Man 1’s face, then to Man 2’s face. CU to a young girl, mid-twenties, red hair sitting between them. Wide shot of bus stop with just the two men. CU to shot of sign saying “fluoride” and repeat that sequence a few times, with them swapping spots (Man1,Girl,Man2; Man2,Girl,Man1; Girl,Man1,Man2; etc). Man2 puts his hat on and walks behind the bus shelter. End.

If your life is broken and you need some help, there are plenty of simple ways to fix it.

The simplest, and first thing to try, is probably an auto-erotic lobotomy: you only really need a hammer and a nail for this one, so it’s cheap and easy. The basic idea is that you want to achieve orgasm (there are plenty of ways to do this; I once saw a video of a girl taking nitrous oxide and then having a spontaneous orgasmic combustion). While you’re at the peak, you want to get the hammer and the nail and drive it into your head - about three quarters of an inch above the top of your nose. Straight into the pineal gland. Let the juices flow and embrace your new friend, the permanent orgasm.

If that doesn’t help, you might like to try something more drastic. A disclaimer is required though; this practice requires years of Zen meditation and will increase your risk of death from 99.5% to 100%. You’ll need to obtain the following: AIDS, diabetes (type two) and a yeast infection. If you’re resourceful or otherwise inclined you can replace AIDS with immunosuppressants however this just means there’ll be another thing that you’ll have to remember to do every day.
You want to get your immune disease or similar-acting drugs and get a feel for how it works. Share drinks with sick people, swim in septic tanks, etc.
Next, consume as much sugar as possible. If you don’t have diabetes yet don’t worry, because this will help. You want as much sugar in your system as possible so the thrush always has something to feed on.
Get the thrush and a hypodermic and inject it straight in.
Congratulations, you have about a week to live. But it’s going to be the best week of your life! Just remember to keep topping up your sugar.

Big lazy yarblockos stemmed in, stampeded into the theatre. “We got to keep these suckahs moving!”, my good friend Max the Pimp excitedly shouted. I looked around, and everybody was there. Max the Pimp was leading the procession, followed by Fat Dave. What a fat bastard. I didn’t really like him much, he was always either eating or spitting out a mouthful with a big ‘chortle’ or something. Mary Lee Alsatian was a bit too tough. I wouldn’t eat her. There were a bunch others. Everybody. A lot others, then. None of them were interesting, so for all I care there wasn’t really anyone there except me. Me and the beef. When I’m alone with them I like to rub them, pat them, and draw on their bodies with chalk exactly the parts that I plan on eating. What a relief, I was alone after all! So I proceeded to rub them, pat them, and draw on their bodies with my chalky appendage. One of those pens that you fill with lead, except I had retro-fitted it to fill it with chalk instead. Pure engineering genius! A marvel! One day parents will be telling their children, tour guides will be telling their guideds, electorates will tell their electeds, “forget the Eiffel Tower; screw Babylon; fuck the pyramids. Just show me the goddamn chalky appendage”. And the bell rang, and it was time to eat, and then go home.

So I ate, and then I went home, and made for bed with the lovely pen that I had crafted - for I kept my journal on my bedside table, a table I had so fondly taken to calling my journal table, or “Joleen”. Joleen was lovely, but no Eiffel Tower. Did she really like me? Did she ever really love me? I made it with her, a few times. A lot of times, actually. Sometimes we tried to make it some sort of competition, how many times we could actually make it in a day. But I don’t think she ever really cared. I had a falling out with her ex-, anyway. I owed money to the vinnies where I found her, and they didn’t like me much. Maybe she still had feelings. Maybe I only ever had feelings for saint vinnie, and was just using her like a cheap jealousy junky would. None of it mattered any more, any way, not after I turned her into a table. She can’t exactly get away now, wooden legs and no muscles. She’s good like that.

It was a fine summer’s day and the sun was shining, and since it was only about ten in the morning we all decided to go on a road trip. Joleen, my chalky appendage and I all piled into my Hudson Esquire ‘96 and we shot off to find some ‘roos to maim.

About twelve seventeen we found our first ‘roo. By this point I’d been itching for a few hours, and my usual playful tac was replaced with nothing but pure bloodlust. Crash, straight over and onto the windshield. Would have to remember to find the owner, for insurance purposes. I stopped for a minute to contemplate the meaning of life, the meaning of this sport, the meaning of my chalky appendage sitting, leaking onto Joleen (but not in a dirty way) and I sitting at the wheel with my arm around her shoulder. It was love, all right. Love of my country, love of my Hudson, love of my Nike Prestons, and above all things, the Eiffel Tower, sitting there, towering over and making us feel all so insignificant but also making us think, hell, it isn’t so bad if we all stick together, is it? And that’s when I decided Fat Dave was following me in his Datsun Sixteen. Poor fat bastard. He was wearing a bandana that covered his eyes, but if you squint real hard, you can see what he’s seeing, and it’s not actually so bad as you’d think. Cuts out a lot of glare. Cats do it too, I think.

I got out of the car and spoke to him sternly, spoke to him with resolve. It was hard, I actually had a stammer when I was at school, and I’ve been working hard to get rid of it ever since. The Pimp says he used to be able to speak the even words of sentences, but he got through that. I think he might have been making that up, just so I wouldn’t feel quite so alone. What a nice guy. I guess that’s why all the women dig him. I got out of the car and spoke to him, but I didn’t really care any more. I just wanted back the days of Joleen and I. But she didn’t want a piece of me, and I knew it. I didn’t have the Adidas for it. Here I was, a cheap Nike boy standing around with some bastard so fat his entire identity is pinned on that fact. Whatever. She could go either way, and either way I go, I’m an American and hell a P.R.I.M.E. citizen of these here states, and a proud citizen of this world.

harold holt.

wanted:
experienced trip-sitter,
specialising in pottery.
name must start with B,
preferably Bec.
Beatrices need not apply.

we kissed on the beach
we kissed and we lied
I said I’d never love another
if the timing was right