This fucking rocks
My Name is Red – Alice, Won’t You Lay With Me?
Proper.
4×4 with a single note baseline on the root and one note guitar bit over the chorus.
Meantime, guitar bits drifting off-note by micro-tones and fed-back to fuck. Rocknroll as it should be. Skinny blokes dressed in black with music so loud
From here innit. Tiny cars. Marvelous.
I bought one of these the other day as well.
Later on I’m going to get a whole army of these, which I’m going to control with telepathy… and then nothing will stand in my way. Muah hah hah hah etc. Fools.
Here are three songs that kindof all start the same, all of which rock etc
Ding ding de dingy-dingy / ding ding de dingy-ding they go. Marvellous. That’s Jaz Coleman in that one. He wound up being the resident composer for the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra. Killing Joke attempted to sue this next lot for stealing the riff, but to their credit dropped it.
Kurt. I still wear the same shoes as that guy. All these years later. I’m wearing them now. This particular clip is the second one I tried because the first one has had embedding disabled. WTF? That’s what youtube clips are fucking FOR… and witness the effectiveness of this - The Internet just routes around any obstacles.
and lastly this :
Which rocks as well - the reason it says “uncensored” is that in some versions, some deeply, deeply, deeply retarded person decided to censor the words “war” and “nuclear war” - at the same time as we were spraying depleted uranium around all over Iraq and killing innocent people by the tens of thousands.
Music (like everything else) is made out of DNA. It has in inherrant moral imperative to be copied and morphed and copied and morphed as much as it possibly can.
Anyone who gets in the way is an anachronism, and has about as much moral legitmacy as the catholic church selling indulgences in the 15th Century.
Fuck off.
PS: If you play all three of these at once it feels like you’re going insane. It’s not that great actually.
There was a man who decided that life was too corrupt. He bought a large corrugated iron tank, and furnished it with the necessities of life - a bed, books, food, electric light and heating, his bible and prayerbook. There he lived a blameless life without interruption from the world. But there was one great hardship.
Morning and evening, without fail, volleys of bullets would rip through the walls of his tank. The man learnt to lie on the floor to avoid being shot. Nevertheless, he did at times sustain wounds, and the iron walls were pierced with many holes that let in the wind and the daylight. He plugged up the holes. He prayed against the unknown marksman, asking God to intervene.
By degrees he began to use the bullet holes for a positive purpose. He would gaze out through one hole or another, and watch the people passing, the children flying kites, the lovers making love, the wind in the trees,… He would forget himself in observing these things.
The day came when the tank rusted and fell to pieces. He walked out of it with little regret. There was a man standing with a gun outside. “Why have you been persecuting me?” asked the man from the tank. The other man laid down the gun and smiled. “I am not your enemy”, he said. And the man from the tank could see that there were scars on the marksman’s hands and feet, and these scars were shining like the sun.
- James K Baxter
I used to live here when I was a kid.
And this is The Brian Jonestown Massacre:
I used to be a frog once.
Ok - not a frog exactly… a type of tadpole - a really small one… well… 1/2 of me was a type of tadpole, the other 1/2 was a tiny biological thing a bit like the death-star probably.
Don’t go all smug. You were too. Once we were all tadpoles. Tadpoles, tadpoles, tadpoles.
Goes tae supermarket.
WTF? There’s about a million different types of everything you want except the thing you’re actually looking for. It’s fucking insanity. I don’t want shampoo for hair that has all sorts of intractible problems, I don’t want to have to become an expert in all the myriad different types of bog-rolls etc… I’ve already got too much to think about, I don’t need to be bombarded with a zillion confusing descisions about stuff that I know nothing about (and am not that interested in in any case) every time I try to feed myself.
What my supermarket needs is a Bloke-Care section… where there are tins (or whatever) of food with “food” written on the labels - like those ones in Repo Man, with Harry Dean Stanton who is excellent. I want Shampoo that’s in a plain bottle with a label that simply says “Shampoo”. In 40px Verdana. Beer is a little different… we know a bit about beer, but everything else… fuck it. We want something that’s been chosen for us by some invisible maternal figure. Please. Free us from all these irrelevant choices.
The Food Tins would obviously have all sorts of different things in them… so it would be a surprise each time etc. We don’t care. As long as it’s up to a certain standard etc… and if it’s been chosen by an invisible maternal figure then it will be.
So there you go. Business opportunity. You don’t need to actually make the stuff.. just a load of food labels. Buy the stuff, stick the labels on and set up a stall outside.
By the way, if you took/made that picture of the tin… I’m using it without permission or attribution because I can’t remember where it came from - it’s excellent though. Pretty much every photo on this whole site is used without permission or attribution, because life is too short and I couldn’t give a rat’s in any case, but this time I’ll make an exception, because this is a work of art. Let me know who you are and I’ll buy you a tiny present of some sort.
These are biros.
They were invented by a Russian or a Hungarian named Brian Bironovich (Bic to his friends) who was an officer in the 11th Hussars around the time of The Crimean War.
Brian (Bic) Bironovich’s Dad with a blank piece of paper before Biro’s were invented. In his left hand is an early frisbee, that he himself invented, alledgedly by mistake.
He was known in the parlance of the time as “a dashing blade”, which is to say he left a string of broken hearts in his wake… and alas, a long list of names tattood to his arm - most of them Olgas or Tattianas. And a Katherine.
Foreseeing a day when he would eventually run out of space, he set about inventing an alternative - and so was born the writey thing that is common-place today, except when you need one.
Brian was never to use his creation for its intended purpose however, falling instead for the love of his life Mabel Hodgekiss from Romford, which was then part of England. They lived a long and happy life together - eventually both dieing during childbirth in their late 80s - which came as something as a suprise to all concerned as it wasn’t actually their child who was being born at the time. A difficult birth though, if the number of casualties is anything to go by.
A further irony is that the only use Brian did see of his biro was gazing through 1/2 lidded eyes into the bathroom mirror the morning after a particularly heavy session in the officers mess - his mates had drunkenly drawn a picture of a biro, in biro on his forehead - where it was to remain for quite some time afterward due to the quality of Prussian ink used at the time. Historians have consistently failed to agree as to whether this was an example of early Russian drinking humour or something more ritualistic - a rite of passage perhaps.
Brian’s mates shortly before they drew a biro on his forehead
Still, whatever, here’s a picture of Csar (Czar, Tsar) Nicholas the nth who I’m probably named after.
Ok Angie, I haven’t forgotten, I’ve just been… well… time does what times does best. Always has.
Anyway, I was messing about with the screen-cam thing that I found the other day - it’s an antique and takes about 4 pixels per shot and whatnot and anyway, I took this…
A little older, a little more lived-in… but still basically me… I used to look like this : as may have mentioned earlier. I don’t look like that now. Now I look as thought I should be wearing a denim shirt with cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve. I should have a tattoo, saying Angie… with a heart with a motorbike coming out of it - but I think it might be a little hasty to do that at this point in our relationship so I imagine I’ll probably just mock something up with a biro and see how it goes etc. I find that’s often the best way - there are a couple if incidents involving tattoos in my top 10 things I don’t regret not doing etc, so biro it is for now.
Anyway, I quite like this photo. It’s all grainy and serious. I look like a movie star again… from some sort of indie film from the 80s/90s etc. This is the song to play in the background
which is Bruce Springsteen before everybody missed the point etc. This is from Nebraska, which is one of the best records ever made.
There isn’t much time… hang up the phone, sell your tv and get a wrecked old car (and a gun) and throw everything you own in the back and head for the coast. I’ll see you there.
