Many people are using their ipods and rss readers to download personal radio content called "podcasts". It doesn't take a lot of effort to make one. A microphone and a recording program is good enough to make a start.

Podcasts are broadcast (or rather "narrowcast") using an rss file (rss means "really simple syndication"). This file is uploaded to apple's itunes or any other number of sites and programs which accept rss content. The file points to an audio or video file on a website which you can subscribe to and get updates every time new content is available.

To give you an idea, I have a podcast called

ANIMA VAGULA BLANDULA

It is available on itunes in the music store under "podcasts". It's free. You can also hear it directly from your browser if you click on the link above:



I'm excited about the idea of podcasting and I would like to invite anyone who has material to join me on my weekly podcast ANIMA VAGULA BLANDULA. At the moment it runs only about 10 minutes and I've been doing readings of my own material. But I'd like to expand the podcast to include other sections. I can include just about anything from RP posts to short articles to whatever may be of interest.

You can either record the material yourself and save it in an mp3 format, or you can send it to me to read "on the air". Interviews are even possible using telephone software like Skype. Contact me for any questions you may have. This could be very interesting for my friends here at AW.

For those of you unfamiliar with Skype, it is a telephone program that works more or less like Messenger programs, except that, given you have a microphone and speakers, you can TALK to other people. If the other person has Skype, you can talk for free no matter where you are. You are even able to call cell phones and land lines for less than 2 cents a minute anywhere in the world (almost).

I have no stock in the company, but I wish I did. It's especially great for me because I live in Spain and my family is in New York. My phone bills are sometimes overwhelming.

Skype can be downloaded for free at www.skype.com.

Well, I've been away for a while, but now I'm back and hope to participate once again at AW. I'm still very busy, but a little less haunted by professional obligations.

It was the time of Augustus, quintessential politician, who succeeded where Caesar failed in uniting the vast empire under one man; of Livia, scheming empress and poisoner of would-be emperors; of Tiberius, who waited too long for what he wanted and did not want it once it was his; of Caligula, mad Caligula, whose scandals shook the very foundations of the young empire; and of a poor lame, partly deaf and stuttering fool who came to rule the Roman world. Many people know the books I, Claudius and Claudius the God by Robert Graves and even more are familiar with the TV series from the seventies, so why not join in the fun as we role play in Rome from the time of Augustus till the time of Nero? There will even be boards to discuss the books and the ancient sources, like Tacitus and Suetonius, from which Graves drew to write his excellent novels. Join us in I, Claudius: Adventures in Julio-Claudian Rome. IClaudius Antonius Xtreemli Curius

I'm starting a Role Play group called I, Claudius: Adventures in Julio-Claudian Rome . I suppose I could be accused of a bit of hubris for attempting something I know virtually (no pun intended) nothing about, but my experience is that you learn by doing if someone lets you do it, so I'm going to give it the best shot I've got.

What I know I've learned from the excellent Ursus Longinus and his role play group The Pyramid Club , a wonderful group where I've been allowed to post the whackiest story I've ever come up. I play Dr. Trep Racine, a Jungian Psychoanalyst, looking for an ancient method of talking directly to the gods, and having them answer right back, you know, like a divine chatroom, if you'll pardon the oxymoron.

My idea for I, Claudius is to have the same loosely organized structure as PC. This is probably the best structure for several reasons. Number one would be that writing partners could operate separately on separate storylines. This way, if someone disappears, other loosely related or completely unrelated storylines can continue, only marginally if at all affected.

Another reason is that the timeline is more fluid, meaning that different stories in different times along the Julio-Claudian timeline can be created. The only fixed element would be the places in Rome which didn't change much between the last years of Augustus's reign and the beginning of Nero's.

If anyone who reads this is interested in joining, or if you consider yourself one of those special members adept at role play, I would really appreciate your involvement and support. You can find I, Claudius HERE

You don't even have to join, if you're too busy. Observe and leave messages at my villa. I'll welcome any suggestions you have.

I just had some moron post insults somewhere about this newbie IClaudius. "Who does he think he is, trying to be funny?" And "All of his role play posts are stupid." And "He posts pictures of naked women". And "His Elagabalus article wasn't worthy of a middle school student."

My first reaction to this was to be completely offended. I didn't even know this person. Why would you leave such a mean-spirited message about someone you don't even know on a board where any casual observer might come across it? A few answers came to mind, most notably small-minded jealousy, but also perhaps the lack of sufficient gratification between the sheets. I even tried to gram him to ask if I had somehow unknowingly offended him and was treated like a war criminal.

After considering the matter I came to the conclusion that the moron in question might indeed be right. My behavior is reprehensible, my posts are stupid, and it's all in the name of "having fun".

As far as the article Elagabalus is concerned, what voice I choose to use for my article is none of your business. I did as much research for it as you did for yours. If I chose not to affect a pompous tone, who the hell are you to criticize it? If I choose a subject people will actually enjoy reading rather than some obscure ancient minutiae, why would you complain, unless more people actually read mine and you feel threatened? If I employ my writing skills to communicate rather than to confuse my readers with suffocating pretentiousness, why would it ruffle your feathers? That I actually wrote something rather than comment on a few miserable and boring photos seems to have upset you.

So while you're out and about with your walker, showing your moldy coin collection to people who couldn't care less about your crude photos and pompous use of a cheap thesaurus, I'll be having fun. That's what I'm here for.

Non scribit cuius carmina nemo legit.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I am sick and tired of being ignored. Color blind artists with no sense of perspective need love, too.

But I've cracked. I can't take it anymore. If I do not receive some comments on my artwork by noon tomorrow, this penguin (shown above and oh so cuddly) will DIE.

I'm not kidding. But I'm not heartless, either. Here are some ready-made phrases you can cut and paste in your posts in praise of my artwork:

Phrase 1: My God, it's deathless.
Phrase 2: I never knew art could make me tingle so.
Phrase 3: Reminds me of a young Picasso, only better and with more hair.
Phrase 4: Let me wash your brushes master, and be your love slave to boot (ladies only).

Leave comments on my message board along with pleas for this arctic fowl's life. His name is Fluffy.

Remember: You have until noon tomorrow or the penguin gets it. RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES.

I'm not sure I trust such a youngun' to shepherd my anima vagula blandula in this world.

A pope with heart problems? Is it a requirement now that popes have built in obsolescence?

I just put up a new article in my study called Dolphin Armrests and the God of Good Health.

I have been accused on several occasions here and on my official website I-CLAUDIUS.COM of making ridiculous the very serious business of history, both ancient and more recent (see the pope entry here and the other article in the library, Elagabalus: I'm Too Sexy for My Toga).

Let me be clear on this: I understand your pain; nevertheless, since I was the guy in class who kept blowing raspberries whenever Greek philosophers were mentioned and who didn't wear anything under his graduation robes, letting them fall open as I received my diploma, you have to cut me some slack.

After all, when all is said and done, nearly everyone and everything is indeed ridiculous; so much so that I have created my own branch of philosophy, a heady brew of cynicism, nihilism, teenage scatological epithets, absurdist manifestos, and reruns of My Mother the Car.

This new philosophy is called Say What?, and you'll notice that there is no "-ism" tacked on to the end of it. And you want to know why? Well, because that would be completely ridiculous.

This article was originally published for a Kylie Minogue fansite. I thought it would be fun to reproduce it here, but I could be wrong.


I want to tell you a little about how I discovered Kylie Minogue. Everyone has their own story. For some it opens their eyes to something new and is therefore a landmark --- if they take their music as seriously as I do. For others it is a casual discovery which does not resonate as anything special, and life goes on as before. I write this for the former, for I not only discovered Kylie, but also a completely different way of looking at pop culture. It opened my eyes to the importance, or at least the significance, of that culture.

I am a snob when it comes to music. If a song does not exploit polyrhythms and complex extended harmonies, I tend to dismiss it out of hand and pop a Frank Zappa CD into the player. My heroes tend to be those shady, oblique artists who throttle their instruments in search of that apocalyptic industrial jazz chord resonating only in the souls of their tortured initiates. Ecstasy for me has always been that irretrievable moment in a King Crimson concert when Adrian Belew pinches off an infernal sonic artifact on his Roland 350 synth guitar, when Al Dimeola’s Gibson-Marshall-configured digits glide through 8 bars of 128th notes. I follow in the wake, proud to be a musical snob.

This snobbery is a function of something I call the “Sphincter of Youth”. It’s a doughnut-shaped muscle that closes tightly around the happy void of acceptance as you take on the prejudices of your teenage friends. They tell you that that singer is cool, that guitarist hot, that group over there as interesting as a sealed tuna sandwich. It never ceases to amaze me the capacity of young minds to be governed by the dominant baboon. I considered myself an individual, but all those long-haired monkeys monkeyed with my happy void of acceptance. I could not make a decision about what I liked without first consulting hipper primates.

Liberation came late one August afternoon in Rome after picking over the ruins of the forum. The heat was such that I had to go back to my hotel room, shower and throw myself on the stone-hard mattress. I lay there gulping less than frigid air from the substandard central air conditioning, trying to determine if the moisture dribbling down my body was from my pores or the shower. As torpor set in, I made one last effort worthy of an ancient Roman general to get up and grab the remote control for the vintage color TV. I flipped through the channels looking for something that vaguely sounded like English, because Italian gave me a headache and all I wanted to do was emulate an eggplant in exquisite repose.

Eventually, the greasy remote buttons landed on Italy’s version of MTV. I saw this blonde coming down the stairs banging on the walls. There were computer generated grids flying around her head and music playing in the background that sounded like someone’s three-year-old son had screwed around with the home equalizer. As the blonde reached the last step, the music equalized and she stuck her bobbing face in the camera and sang, “Thought that I was going crazy…”

You remember the Grinch with the heart two sizes too small? At the moment of the Grinch’s revelation when the sled full of goodies with the little Who girl perched on top started teetering over the edge, his heart suddenly grew five sizes, bursting through his Santa suit. That’s what happened to my Sphincter of Youth. It relaxed five sizes. I was hooked. I missed half the song waiting to read the title and artist flashing on the screen. KYLIE MINOGUE. Love at First Sight. Never heard of her, but the title of the song certainly described what I felt.

But this is silly, I kept telling myself. I had abandoned all hope of being enriched by pop music about the time Michael Jackson had his first dimple implant. Pop was as intellectually satisfying as a shuffleboard game and as intricate as a pattern of pale pink polka dots. It was a music born not of creative mysteries, but of marketing surveys and computer readouts graphically representing the catchiest hooks. It was a thing to be reviled, danced to, and disposed of like a designer iced tea bottle. Nothing more. In the relentless closing of the joyful aperture of acceptance, I had blocked out even the possibility that pop could be exciting, and a pop princess could catch my eye.

This self-criticism forced me to deal with my newfound love in the only way an embarrassed convert can: I listened in my room late at night where no one could see the CD cover. I locked my door when I popped the DVD of the Live in Sydney tour into the player. I secretly bopped in back seats when one of Kylie’s songs came over scratchy cab radios. I kept MTV on in the background while writing, hoping to see a video of Kylie, and quickly switched the channel to CNN if my girlfriend came into the room. One close call was diverted when she walked in and said, “I’m confused. I thought I heard you playing that idiotic ‘Cheeky Girls’ song, but I see George Bush on the TV.” I answered, perhaps a bit too defensively, “What do you expect? He’s a Republican!”. I behaved like I harbored a secret perversion, perhaps one involving rubber underwear and sophisticated hydraulics, forced to indulge my damaged sexuality under cover of darkness.

Then my bi-monthly issue of Book Magazine arrived, which featured an interview with Umberto Eco, a literary hero of mine (yes, no pop bestsellers for Peter, the snob). In the interview he talked about the mythos of the hero, citing his love for Spiderman comics and American pop culture. More telling than his words, however, were his activities during the interview. While pontificating on Spiderman, the hero and villain archetypes, he took bites of a Big Mac and pensive drags on a Marlboro cigarette. My hero had embraced pop culture; indeed, he was eating it, making it a part of himself. And was no worse for it. Intellectually at least. Well if he had embraced it, so could I. Here was a higher primate worth the deference. I thought, well, if I could process the experience of watching and listening to pop, to Kylie, through the printed word I could somehow legitimize that voyeurism, kind of like the pimply adolescent who buys Playboy for the articles.

I joined the kylie-minogue.com forum several months ago, searching for a place to call home, and was asked to do this series of articles and reviews for the main website. I was reluctant at first because my real job involves writing and there’s nothing worse than doing for a hobby that which you do for a living. I came to realize that it would be fun to do it, a sort of literary drag show. Perhaps it may serve to open that joyful aperture of acceptance that closed tightly long ago.