In my opinion Daft Punk can do no wrong. This fan made video to their song Teachers is a cool look at the D.J.'s that influenced them. the ending is cool to because you get to see the men behind the robots.
Hope everyone's Christmas was good. Yoshi has amassed an action figure army to be reckoned with. The wife got me a turntable that connects to the computer so i can start digital-izing my albums.(over 500!)
I got invited to a new years day brunch where everyone is going to plunge in Lake Michigan. I am really waffling on jumping in. (The temperature in January averages about 29°F (-2°C) I have a feeling i will have a heart attack on the spot.
IF i were God and i saw that show Jersey Shore i would destroy the Earth.
Being a traditionalist, I'm a rabid sucker for Christmas. In July, I'm already worried that there are only 146 shopping days left. "What are you getting me for Christmas?" I carp to fellow bathers who haven't even decided what to do for Labour Day. As each month follows, I grow more and more obsessed. Around October I startle complete strangers by bursting into my off-key rendition of "Joy to the World." I'm always The Little Drummer Boy for Halloween, a grouchy one at that, since the inconsiderate stores haven't even put up their Christmas decorations yet. November 1 kicks off the jubilee of consumerism, and I'm so riddled with the holidays season that the mere mention of a stocking stuffer sexually arouses me.
By December , I'm deep in Xmas psychosis, and only then do I allow myself the luxury of daydreaming my favourite childhood memory: dashing through the snow, laughing all the way (ha-ha-ha) to Grandma's house to find the fully decorated tree has fallen over and pinned her underneath. My candy-coloured memories have run through the projector of my mind so many times that they are almost in 3-D. That awful pause before my parents rushed to free her, my own stunned silence as I dared not ask if Granny's gifts to us had been damaged, and the wondrous, glories sight of the snow semi-crooked tree, with balls broken, being begrudgingly hoisted back to its proper position of adoration. "O Christmas tree! O Christmas tree!" I started shrieking at the top of my lungs in an insane fit of childhood hyperventilation before being silenced by a glare from my parents that could have stopped a train. This tableau was never mentioned again, and my family pretended it never happened. But I remember—boy, do I remember!
If you don't have yourself a merry little Christmas, you might as well kill yourself. Every waking second should be spent in Christmas compulsion: career, love affairs, marriages, and all the other clutter of daily life must take a backseat to this holiday of holidays. As December 25 fast approaches, the anxiety and pressure to experience "happiness" are all part of the ritual. If you can't maintain the spirit, you're either a rotten Communist or badly in need of a psychiatrist. No wonder you don't have any friends.
Of course, You-know-who was supposed to have been born on Christmas, but the real Holy Trinity is God the Father, the Son and the Holy Santa Claus. You don't see fake Josephs and Marys in department stores asking kids what they want, do you? Face it, mangers are downwardly mobile. True, swiping a sheep or a wise man for your apartment from a local church is always good for a cheap thrill and invariably gets you in the paper the next day. And Madalyn Murray O'Hair (the publicity-crazed atheist saint) always gets a rise by successfully demanding in court the removal of Nativity scenes from her state capital on Christmas Eve. But we all know who the real God is, don't we? That's right, the Supreme One, Santa Claus.
But if you think about it, Santa Claus is directly responsible for heroin addiction. Innocent children are brainwashed into believing the first big lie their parents ever tell them, and when the truth finally hits, they never believe them again. All the stern warnings on the perils of drugs carry the same credibility as flying reindeer or fat men in your chimney. But I love Santa Claus anyway: All legends have feet of clay. Besides, he's a boon to the unemployed. where else can drunks and fat people get temporary work?
Of course, to many, Santa is an erotic figure, and fore these lucky revelers, the Christmas season is a smorgasbord of raw sex. Some people just go for a man in a uniform. Inventive entrepreneurs should open a leather bar called the Pole where dominant wrinkle fetishists could dress like old St. Nick and passive gerontophiliacs could get on all fours and take the whip like good reindeer. Inhaling poppers and climbing down mock chimneys or opening sticks 'n' stones from the red-felt master could complete the sex-drenched atmosphere of the first S&M Xmas bar.
You could even get fancy about it. Why hasn't Bloomingdale's or Tiffany's tried a fancy Santa. Deathly pale, this never-too-thin-or-too-rich Kris Kringle, dressed in head-to-toe unstructured, over-size Armani, could pose on a throne, bored and elegant, and every so often deign to let a rich little brat sit near his lap before dismissing his wishes with a condescending "Oh, darling, you don't really want that, do you?"
Santa has always been the ultimate movie star. Forget White Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life and all the other hackneyed trash. Go for the classics: Silent Night, Bloody Night, Black Christmas or the best seasonal film of all time Christmas Evil ("He'll sleigh you"). This true cinematic masterpiece only played theatrically for a few seconds, but it's now available on videocassette and no holiday family get-together is complete without it. I t's about a man completely consumed by Christmas. His neurosis first rears its ugly head as he applies shaving cream to his face, looks in the mirror, hallucinates a white beard and begins to imagine that he is Santa Claus. He gets a job in a toy factory, starts snooping and spying on the neighbourhood children and then rushes home to feverishly make notes in his big red book: "Jimmy was a good boy today," or "Peggy was a bad little girl." He starts cross-dressing as Claus and lurks around people's roots ready to take the plunge. Finally, he actually gets stick in a nearby chimney and awakens the family in his struggle. Mom and Dad go insane when they find a fat lunatic in their fireplace, but the kids are wild with glee. Santa has no choice but to kill these Scroogelike parents with the razor-sharp star decorating the top of their tree. As he flees a neighbourhood lynch mob, the children come to his rescue and defy their distraught parents by forming a human ring of protection around him. Finally, pushed to the limits of Clausmania, he leaps into his van/sleigh and it takes off flying over the moon as he psychotically and happily shrieks, "On Dancer! On Prancer! On Donner and Vixen!" I wish I had kids. I'd make them watch it every year and if they didn't like it, they'd be punished.
Preholiday activities are the foreplay of Christmas. Naturally, Christmas cards are you first duty and you must send one (with a personal, handwritten message) to every single person you ever met, no matter how briefly. If this common courtesy is not reciprocated, never speak to the person again. Keep computerized records of violators and hold the grudge forever; don't even attend their funeral.
Of course, you must make your own cards by hand. "I don't have time" you may whine, but since the whole purpose of life is Christmas, you'd better make time, buster. We Christmas zealots are rather demanding when it comes to the basic requirements of holiday behaviour. "But I can't think of anything . . . ." is usually the next excuse, but cut those people off in mid-sentence. It's easy to be creative at Christmastime. One year I had a real cute idea that was easy to design. I bought a cheap generic card of Joseph and Mary holiday the Baby Jesus and superimposed Charles Manson's face in the place of the homeless infant's. Inside I kept the message "He is born". Everybody told me they loved it and some even said they saved it. (For the record, I'm against donating your cards to nursing homes after Christmas. One would think that after all these years on earth, senior citizens would have had a chance to make a friend or two on their own. Don't do it!) This season, I'm dying to produce my dream card that I've wanted for years. I'll be sitting in a Norman Rockwell-style Christmas scene, dressed in robe and slippers, opening my gifts moments before I notice a freak fire that has begun in the tissue paper and is licking and spreading to the tree.
Go deeply in debt over Christmas shopping. Always spend in exact correlation to how much you like the recipient. Aunt Mary I love about $6.50 worth; Uncle Jim—well, at least he got his teeth fixed—$8. If your Christmas comes and goes without declaring bankruptcy, I feel sorry for you—you are a person with not enough love inside.
You can never buy too many presents. If you said "Excuse me" to me on a transit bus, you're on my list. I wrap gifts for nonexistent people in case somebody I barely know hands me a present and I'm unprepared to return this gesture. Even though I'm the type who infuriates others by saying "Oh, I finished my shopping months ago," as they frantically try to make last-minute decisions. I like to go into the stores at the height of Christmasmania. Everyone is in a horrid mood, and you can see the overburdened, underpaid temporary help having nervous breakdowns. I always write down their badge numbers and report them for being grumpy.
If you're a criminal, Christmas is an extra-special time for you and your family. Shoplifting is easier and cars in parking lots are loaded with presents for your children. Since everyone steals the checks you must leave for the mailman and garbagemen, I like to leave little novelty items, like letter bombs. Luckily, I live in a bad neighbourhood, so I don't have to worry; the muggers live in my building and go to the rich neighbourhoods to rob. If you're quick, you can even steal the muggers' loot as they unload the car. Every child in my district seems to get rollerskates for Christmas, and it's music to my ears to hear the sudden roar of an approaching gang on skates, tossing back and forth like a hot potato a purse they've just snatched.
"Santa Claus Is a Black Man" is my favourite Christmas carol, but I also like The Chipmunks' Christmas Album, the Barking Dogs' "Jingle Bells" and "Frosty the Snowman" by the Ronettes. If you're so filled with holiday cheer you can't stand it, try calling your friends and going caroling yourself. Especially if you're old, a drug addict, an alcoholic or obviously homosexual and have a lot of effeminate friends. Go In packs. If you are black, go to a prissy white neighbourhood. Ring doorbells, and when the Father Knows Best-type family answers, start screeching hostilely your favourite carol. Watch their faces. There's nothing they can do. It's not illegal. Maybe they'll give you a present.
Always be prepared if someone asks you what you want for Christmas. Give brand names, the store that sells the merchandise and, if possible, exact model numbers so they can't go wrong. Be the type who's impossible to buy for so that they have to get what you want. Here was my 1985 list and I had checked it twice; the long-out-of-print paperback The Indiana Torture Slaying, the one-sheet for the film I Hate Your Guts and the subscription to Corrections Today, the trade paper for prison wardens. If you owe someone money, now is the time to pay him back, mentioning at the same time a perfect gift suggestion. If you expect to be receiving a Christmas stocking as a forerunner to a present, tell the giver right off the bat that you don't go for razor blades, deodorants or any of the other common little sundries but anticipate stocking stuffers that are original, esoteric and perfectly suited to you and you alone.
It helps to be a collector, so the precedent is set on what to expect as a gift. For years friends have treated me to the toy annually selected by the Consumer Affairs Committee of Americans for Democratic Action as the "worst toy" to give your child at Christmastime. "Gobbles, the Garbage-Eating Goat" started my collection. "That crazy eating goat" reads the delightful package, and in small print, "Contains: One realistic goat with head that goes up and down. Comes complete with seven pieces of pretend garbage." This Kenner Discovery Time toy's instructions are priceless. "Gobbles loves to eat garbage when he's hungry, and he's ALWAYS hungry. (1) Hold Gobbles mouth open by the beard. Stuff a piece of pretend garbage straight into his mouth and (2) pump the tail until the garbage disappears." It ends with an ominous warning, "Feed Gobbles only the garbage that comes with the toy," and in even smaller print "If you need additional garbage, we will, as a service, send it to you direct. For 14 pieces of garbage send $1 (check or money order; sorry, no C.O.D.) to . . . . " I can't tell you the hours of fun I've had with Gobbles. Sometimes when I'm very bored, Gobbles and I get naked and play-play.
Over the years my collection has grown. There's "My Puppy Puddles" ("You can make him drink water, wet in his tray and kiss you"). "Baby Cry and Dry" about whom the watchdog group warned: "Take her out of the box and she smells, the odor won't go away" and "Baby Cry for You." ("The tears don't just drop out, they whoosh out in a three-foot stream.") Of course, I still cover the winner of the first annual prize (before my collection began)—a guillotine for dolls. "Take that, Barbie." "Off with your head, Betsy Wetsy!"
No matter what you think of your presents, each must be answered with an immediate thank you note. Thinking of what to write can be tricky, especially for distant relatives who send you a card with two crisp $1 bills inside. Be honest in your reply—"Dear Uncle Walt. Thank you for the $2. I bought a pack of Kools and then put the change in an especially disgusting peep show, it was fun!" or "Dear Aunt Lulu, I was thrilled to receive your kind gift of $5. I immediately bought some PCP with it. Unfortunately, I had a bad reaction, stabbed my sister, set the house on fire and got taken to the hospital for the criminally insane. Maybe you could come visit me? Love, Your nephew."
I always have an "office party" every year and invite my old friends, business associates and any snappy criminals who have been recently paroled. I reinforce all my chairs, since for some reason many of my guests are very fat, and after a few splintered antiques, I've learned my lesson. I used to throw the party on Christmas Eve, but so many guests complained of hideous hangovers I had to move up the date. No more moaning and dry heaving under their parents' tree the next day as their brothers and sisters give them dirty looks for prematurely ejaculating the Christmas spirit.
I usually invite about a hundred people and the guest know I expect each to get everyone else a present. Ten thousand gifts! When they're ripped open at midnight, you can see Christmas dementia at its height. One thing that pushes me off the deep end is party crashers. I've solved the problem by hiring a door many who pistol-whips anyone without an invitation, but in the old days, crashers actually got inside. How rude! At Christmas, of all times, when visions of sugarplums are dancing orgiastically through my head. One even brought her mother—how touching. "GET OUT!" I snarled after snatching out of her hand the bottle of liquor that she falsely assumed would gain her (and her goddamn mother) entry.
I always show a film in one room: Wedding Trough (about a man who falls in love with a pig and then eats it) or Kitten with a Whip (Ann-Margret and John Forsythe) or What Sex Am I? (a clinical documentary about a sex-change operation). When it's finally time for the guests to leave, I blatantly get in bed and go to sleep; they know they better get home. Santa is on his way.
Christmas day is like an orgasm that never stops. Happiness and good cheer should be throbbing in your veins. Swilling eggnog, scarfing turkey and wildly ripping open presents with your family, one must pause to savor the feeling of inner peace. Once it's over, you can fall apart.
Now is the time for suicide if you are so inclined. All sorts of neuroses are permitted. Depression and feelings that it somehow wasn't good enough would be expected. There's nothing to do! Go to a bad movie? You can't leave the house between now and January 1 because it's unsafe; the national highways are filled with drunks unwinding and frantically trying to get away from their families. Returning gifts is not only rude but psychologically dangerous—if you're not careful you might glimpse the scum of the earth, cheap bastards who shop at after-Christmas sales to save a few bucks. What can you look forward to? January 1, the Feat of the Circumcision, perhaps the most unappetizing High Holiday in the Catholic Church? Cleaning up that dirty, dead, expensive Christmas tree that is now an instant out-of-season fire hazard? There is only one escape from post-Christmas depression—the thought that in four short weeks it's time to start all over again. What're ya gonna get me?Happy Holidays....long post but worth reading....my present to YOU....
Wesley was the real deal and i saw him at dozens of shows. If he liked you he would headbutt you and i'll never forget when he saw me at the Expo of the Extreme. He approached me and leaned close to my face and said "say rrra" and i said "rrrraaa' and he whispered "yea,rrrraaa" and lightly headbutt me.
Merry Christmas- Wesley Willis
Below are some of my favorite condolences, stories, and memories of peoples meetings with Wesley Willis from the Jello Biafra run Alternative Tentacles record label
"Wesley wasn't someone I wanted to be friends with- , his songs seemed juvenile and offensive (though I was admittedly charmed by the songs he sung about the things he loved and his friends), he had a reputation for delivering headbutts and I couldn't understand my friends' interest in him.
Then last summer Chris and Kim, his sometimes caretakers, friends and documentarians brought him over and he spent an afternoon in my backyard. He played his keyboard and sang dirty songs so loud I was afraid my neighbors could hear until I bribed him with a snow cone. He threw his head back and laughed with abandon and joy. He headbutted me gently and made me say, "Ra".
That afternoon I came to see him the way my friends Chris and Kim did- as someone who was driven by his need to constantly make music and create, who was mischevious, funny, good hearted and misunderstood." Michelle M. Baldwin
"after recording a bunch, and then driving to some shows, Wesley was exhasted, so was i. we got up late one day and his medication wore off, he was haveing a hard time. i had to try to drive while holding his hand while he switched from crying, to trying to hit his head, to yelling at those awfull demons, there was no joy ride for the whole ride back to the studio, a few hour ride. i was exhasted, he couldnt be reassured, at least not for long. we get back to the studio i finally got him in bed, he always asked me to tuck him in, so he finally gets in bed, i am so tired, its like 3 or 4 am, i get into the booth at the studio (wes slept on the bed) i lay down on the floor ready for some alone time and rest, and then i hear this noise, like wesley yelling through the glass in the booth's windows, i think, oh shit, he woke up, he is probely yelling at the demons, anyway i get up, trying to be sypathetic, but i am totaly tired and annoyed, i open the door to the studio where wes was still tucked in, facing straight up, not eving listening to what he was saying, i interupt his outburst, and say "wes, its time to sleep!" he turns his head over twards me with a big huge smile, and says "dont be mad zespy, im just singing my favorite loverboy song!" " the kid is hot tonight, oh so hot tonight!" , over and over we sang, lauging our asses off at how silly it was, and forgiving each other for a hard day. we sang and i ran around the studio belting out the lyrics as he lay in bed singing over and over. it was a great realese. we both slept well that night, the hell ride was over. the joy ride had been just around the corner, we just didnt see it. wes tought me patience, and hope, an how to work your fucking ass off. anway i am rambling. i have many stories as does everyone that had him in their life." Zespy
"I'll never forget the time I first heard Wes's cover of "Girls on Film". I sat on the floor to my apartment with stereo up as loud as it could go. The walls shook and my cat cowered in the corner, confused and petrified. The best thing about it... my roommate left because of the noise.
Wesley never failed to bring a smile to my face no matter what the situation was. I spent many a night in the dark subways of Boston with my headphones on and "They Threw Me Out of Church" in my ear. That was the only way to survive crowds of screaming red sox fans and drunken college frat boys.
I regret not being able to get into TT the Bear's last time he came to Boston and it saddens me to know I'll never get a friendly headbutt. He'll be sorely missed here on the East Coast as well as the West.
As my friend said, there goes one of the last true punks." Rock on Wesley
Chicago is home to many great musicians. Buddy Guy, Smashing Pumpkins, Urge Overkill, Kanye West, Common, and of course Jan Terri. Do yourself a favor and look into Jan Terri's body of work.
The following is her masterpiece Rock and Roll Santa.
As a kid i remember seeing several Bridgette Bardot films on T.V. Her films used to drive me crazy because she would get naked and then be "interrupted" right before i (the viewer) got to see her body. She would cover up with towels, pillows,and guitars, whatever she happened to be near. I would always think "you damn landlord you ruined it!"
She used to spend half her movies "covering" up.
This picture below is a very young photo of her brunette. My God...
I just spotted these wonderful reviews by Milwaukee-based videographer/editor/critic Mike Stoklasa on Toplessrobot.com and i had to share.I won't count these as part of my 101 reasons but i will be spotlighting all 70 minutes (!) of these epic dissertations. Grab a soda, take a 10 minute break, and enjoy.
When i was in grade school my school had this end of summer event where you got to come in and play games in the gym and businesses set up booths selling crap etc. So it must have been 3rd or 4th grade and i was waiting for my dad to come home from work and take me. He got home late because his car had broken down and he walked (quite a ways if i remember correctly) home in the afternoon heat. I guessed we wouldn't be going and i remember being upset and let down.
My memories of what happened next are vague. I know dad walked with me to the school so i could see my friends and play games. This has always stuck with me. He must have been tired, hot, and pissed but he took me to my thing anyway.It helps me push through any fatigue when my son wants to play after i work a 10 hour day and its something i will never forget.
Strange how a probably insignificant event can become such a catalyst to a belief, and a moral way of life.
Clay Franklin was working in a video store one day listening to Godflesh while Jesus Christ Superstar was playing and he noticed parts synced up quite nice so he made this video. No parts of the video were paused, slowed down, or otherwise manipulated by him.
(This thing goes Epic around the 3:30 mark)
Horace Ridler was born a wealthy, upper-class aristocrat in Surrey, England in 1892. During World War I he joined the British Army and reached the rank of major. As a member of the Desert Mountain Corps, he was decorated for bravery. While a soldier traveling the world, he got a few small tattoos. When he returned home from the war, he came into an inheritance and promptly squandered it. After much deliberation, he hit on a course of action—become a self-made freak!
He finally found a tattoo artist who would provide the "look" he wanted; a man called George Burchett. The creation of the all-over striped look that Horace wanted took over 150 hours of tattooing and several plastic surgeries (due to the fact that certain areas of the human body don't take well to tattooing, such as the eye cavities and throat). In all, the process took over 500 sittings with the artist and a fee of over $3000 (this was in the 1920s)!
His wild scheme certainly paid off. He received some of the highest fees ever paid a tattooed man. He was even included in Ripley's 1938 Broadway show. He also added nose rings, piercing and other "decorations" to enhance his wild-man status. In his presentation, he claimed to have been captured by New Guinea "savages" and forcibly tattooed. Later, his similarly tattooed wife joined the act as "The Omette."
During World War II, Omi tried to reenlist, but was turned down due to his appearance (imagine). So, he made a movie and donated the proceeds to the war effort.
I liked this subject from an earlier post and to make it even more "peanut butter in my chocolate" i will have a yang to the ying of things i find not sexy. Things that are downright revolting in my humble opinion . So here we go....
When she wears your shirt.
If i had more time and money i would track these people down and make a documentary on these extreme-Jersey-tanned-people. They fascinate me. They really don't realize how silly they look? And i love the "kissy-faces" they make for the camera. There are whole websites that deal with these types but theres my little rant on them. YUCK!
Thigh-highs. They drive me wild. And the best part is the skin peeking out in between.
Fake "bondage" types who think wearing latex and carrying a riding crop make you part of the scene. Its been dead since the 90's and was really only thriving and cool in England anyway. I was on the fringe of this particular "scene" as an artist and fashion lover but it was boring and lame. Your typical event was 10% people into it and 90% fratboys looking to harass girls. The 10% that were into it were mostly made up of biker types and cougar-esque housewives with bad wigs on. Lame then-lamer now.
A girl that knows how to ride. I haven't ridden since 97 or so but when i see a girl alone on a bike i melt. Ever seen the "Dykes on Bykes" at gay pride? Bad Ass.
Collagen lip injections. Jeez look at this beast. And she's rocking the fake tan/boob combo. wow. I'll bet a million dollars she's from "Strong Island ,New Yowk"
Narrator: I felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every Panda that wouldn't screw to save its species. I wanted to open the dump valves on oil tankers and smother all those French beaches I'd never see. I wanted to breathe smoke.
One summer i was out riding my bike. When i would come home i would ride my bike up a sidewalk next to my house that led to the backyard. On this particular day i was walking my bike up when i saw something in the middle of the sidewalk next to my house. It was about the size of a tennis ball and all black. It looked "fuzzy" and it was emitting a barely heard buzzing noise. I kept walking toward it thinking it was a toy or something but what it did next scared me so bad i dropped my bike and ran to the street. Two little eyes blinked at me.
I was 12 or 13 years old and utterly terrified. I was positive then, as i am now, that that thing blinked at me. It wasn't moving. I started to walk slowly toward my bike when it flew lazily towards me. I ran to the end of the block and looked but i didn't see it. I cut down the alley and entered our backyard thru the garden. I could see the sidewalk from the backyard and the fuzzy thing wasn't there. I grabbed my bike and besides a few friends here and there i have never talked about this incident until now.